Dr. Watson

It's pleasant to sit out here on a summer's night with a good friend and a pipe, a bottle of wine.

Help yourself to a glass and sit down.

Yes, and a strange story it is.

It was in the autumn of 1899, Mr. Bartell, that I decided both as doctor and friend...

Sherlock Holmes was in desperate need of a holiday.

Oh, yes, my boy.

It had been an unusually busy year, and at the time my story begins, Holmes was suffering from complete exhaustion.

So, my boy, towards the end of October in that year, we found ourselves in the charming city of Kazanlak, capital of the small Balkan kingdom of Grozny.

A few nights after our arrival, I remember Pavlo Krasnodar, Groznyan minister of police,

took us to hear the singing of a certain young Hungarian opera star, Miss Lily Rayner, who was then touring Europe.

At our table was her fiancé, the charming young aristocrat Prince Stefano.

And it was very easy to see as he sat there listening to the song that the boy was head over heels in love.

It was a haunting melody that she sang, Mr. Bartell.

You're a very lucky man, Prince Stefano.

Your fiancée's voice matches her beauty.

Oh, by George S.

She was a criminal, one of the few that outwitted you, Holmes.

Oh, that was a case that would have interested you, Mr. Krosnodar.

Spy?

Good Lord.