"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side

of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely

stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We

would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere

commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window

hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the

roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the

strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the

wonderful chains of events, working through generation, and

leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with

its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and

unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which

come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and

vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to

its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,

neither fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a

realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the

police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the

platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an

observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend

upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking

so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser

and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout

three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is

strange and bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper

from the ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the

first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his

wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without

reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of

course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the

bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of

writers could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,"

said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This

is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged

in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The

husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the

conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of

winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling

them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely

to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a

pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over

you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in

the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his

homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon

it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.

It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my

assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which

sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in

which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it

even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of

my little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of

interest. They are important, you understand, without being

interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in

unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation,

and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the

charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the

simpler, for the bigger the crime thc more obvious, as a rule, is

the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter

which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing

which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however,

that I may have something better before very many minutes are

over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted

blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.

Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite

there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,

and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was

tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her

ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,

hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated

backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove

buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves

the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp

clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his

cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always

means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure

that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet

even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously

wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom

is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love

matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or

grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons.

entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself

loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed

merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed

her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and,

having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked

her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was

peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a

little trying to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters

are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport

of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear

and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've

heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know

all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know

things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others

overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,

whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had

given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as

much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in

my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and

I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked

Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to

the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss

Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said,

"for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.

Windibank--that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to

the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he

would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done,

it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away

to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the

name is different."

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny,

too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.

Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and

a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father

was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy

business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the

foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the

business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines.

They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't

near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this

rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary he

had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the

business?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle

Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per

cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can

only touch the interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so

large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the

bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in

every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely

upon an income of about 60 pounds."

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you

understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a

burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while

I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the

time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it

over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I

earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can

often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a-day."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as

freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your

connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."