The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton

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,
Appledore Towers,
Hampstead.
Agent.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down and
stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the back of
the card?"

I turned it over.

"Will call at 6:30--C.A.M.," I read.

"Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the
Zoo, and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with
their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how
Milverton impresses me. I've had to do with fifty murderers in
my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion
which I have for this fellow. And yet I can't get out of doing
business with him--indeed, he is here at my invitation."

"But who is he?"

"I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face
and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has
drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would
have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as
follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay
very high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and
position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have
gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals
with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven
hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and
that the ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which
is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in
this great city