The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez

When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which
contain our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very
difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select
the cases which are most interesting in themselves, and at the
same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers
for which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see
my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the
terrible death of Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an
account of the Addleton tragedy, and the singular contents of
the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession
case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and
arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin--an exploit which won
for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the French
President and the Order of the Legion of Honour. Each of these
would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that
none of them unites so many singular points of interest as the
episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the
lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those
subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the
causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November.
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged
with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original
inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon
surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the
rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in
the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork
on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no
more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional
lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement.
A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

"Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,"
said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the
palimpsest. "I've done enough for one sitting. It is trying work
for the eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more
exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating from the second half of
the fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What's this?"

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
horse's hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

"What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

"Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
cravats and