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It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light,

for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as

to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the

matter even more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to

find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my

bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the

mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I

blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little

resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the

common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she

retorted upon me, and I on you."

"What is it, then-a fire?"