It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,
even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have
been impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal
person concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with
due suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure
no one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will
excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he
might trace the actual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and
I, and had returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's
evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
Hampstead.
Agent.