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I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last yearand found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman withfiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmespulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson, he said cordially. I was afraid that you were engaged. So I am. Very much so. Then I can wait in the next room. Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of mymost successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yoursalso. The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quicklittle questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. Try the settee, said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertipstogether, as was his custom when in judicial moods. I know, my dear Watson, that youshare my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine ofeveryday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted youto chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of myown little adventures. Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me, I observed. You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the verysimple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects andextraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring thanany effort of the imagination. A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.

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