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"We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to

have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

"Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story."

"Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an

instant." I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my

wife, and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my

new acquaintance to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his

sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of

The Times and smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was

composed of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the

day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of

the mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion,

ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal.

When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the

sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of

brandy and water within his reach.