"Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window

looking down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It

seems rather sad that his relatives should allow him to come out

alone."

My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his

hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my

shoulder. It was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow

of the day before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering

brightly in the wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had

been ploughed into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at

either side and on the heaped-up edges of the foot-paths it still

lay as white as when it fell. The gray pavement had been cleaned

and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so that there

were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of

the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single

gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention...

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