The Adventure of the Norwood Builder

"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since
the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to
agree with you," I answered.

"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as
be pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The
community is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save
the poor out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With
that man in the field, one's morning paper presented infinite
possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the
faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the
great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the
edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in
the centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--
to the man who held the clue all could be worked into one
connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher
criminal world, no capital in Europe offered the advantages
which London then possessed. But now----" He shrugged his
shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things which
he had himself done so much to produce.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some
months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned
to share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named
Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I
ventured to ask--an incident which only explained itself some
years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation of
Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had
stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and
also the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which
so nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was
always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no
further word of himself, his methods, or his successes--a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a
tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow
drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door
with his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into
the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair,