Nigel Bruce

I never felt better, thank you, Mr. Bartell.

Draw up your usual chair and make yourself comfortable.

Yes, Mr. Bartow.

I think you'll find it as pretty a little problem as we ever encountered.

The story began in 1887, a very busy year for us, my boy.

It was the same year that Holmes solved the case of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held their meetings in a luxuriously furnished vault below a furniture warehouse.

It was indeed.

You've got a very good memory, Mr. Bartow.

The story I'm going to tell you tonight topped off this unusually exciting year.

It was late in October and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence.

All day the wind had howled and the rain had beaten against the windows of our Baker Street lodgings.

Finally, it was midnight as far as I remember, the storm grew higher and louder and the wind in the chimney sobbed like a child.

Suddenly...

Much to our surprise, the doorbell jangled, and a few moments later, our midnight visitor stood before us.

He was a man of about fifty-five, and as he looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, I could see that his face was pale and that his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.

And yet when he spoke, his tone was businesslike and almost aggressive.

Here you are, sir.

Let me hang it up for you.

Oh, come, come, come.

Well, I'll wager that my friend's right, though, isn't he, Mr. Lovelace?