Dr. John Watson

Evening, doctor.

Yes, the three of us did, my boy.

Go on, run off out in the patio.

I took a seven-iron and some old golf balls on the beach this afternoon.

I improved my game, I think, and the dogs had a great time chasing the golf balls.

On the way home, the little rascals had a furious battle with an elderly pelican.

So their day was complete.

Oh, I'll be glad of your company, Mr. Bartell.

Well, draw up your usual churn.

I'll get on with tonight's Sherlock Holmes adventure.

Yes, indeed he did, Mr. Bartell.

His name was Francois Navillard.

and he was a detective of some note in his own country.

By the time my story begins, it was in 1889 to be exact, Livia had come over to London to discuss with Holmes the difficulties of translating some of his monographs into the French language.

At this particular time, I was in the early days of my marriage, Mr. Bartell, and this fact, combined with the busy practice...

meant that I saw very little of my old friend.

Oh, he did.

Well, of course, he didn't admit the fact, but to get on with my story.

One cloudless June afternoon, I found myself in the neighborhood of Baker Street, and I couldn't resist paying a visit to Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson was out, but having retained my old latchkey, I let myself in and mounted the familiar stairs.