The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have

long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles

in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have

eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the

gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to

believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to

the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a

considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no

memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of

this remarkable episode.

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I

was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came

home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table

waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather

had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and

the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as

a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence.

With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had

surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last,

saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and

lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the

envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend's

noble correspondent could be.

"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered.

"Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a

fish-monger and a tide-waiter."

"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he

answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more

interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social

summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."

"Not social, then?"

"No, distinctly professional."

"And from a noble client?"

"One of the highest in England."

"My dear fellow. I congratulate you."

"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my

client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his

case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be

wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the

papers diligently of late, have you not?"

"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in

the corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I

read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The

latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent

events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his

wedding?"

"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord

St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn

over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter.

This is what he says: