| It
was on a bitterly cold night and frosty morning, towards the end of the winter
of '97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle
in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that
something was amiss. "Come,
Watson, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes
and come!" Ten
minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the silent streets on
our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint winter's dawn was beginning
to appear, and we could dimly see the occasional figure of an early workman as
he passed us, blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes nestled
in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was
most bitter, and neither of us had broken our fast.
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