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had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last
year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly
gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to
withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind
me. "You
could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially.
"I was afraid that you were engaged."
"So I am. Very
much so."
"Then I can wait in the next room."
"Not
at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of
my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use
to me in yours also."
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair
and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes. "Try
the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips
together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson,
that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and
humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm
which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat
to embellish so many of my own little adventures." "Your
cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed.
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