The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans

In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow
fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I
doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker
Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day
Holmes had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references.
The second and third had been patiently occupied upon a subject
which he hand recently made his hobby--the music of the Middle
Ages. But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our
chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still
drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-
panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endure this
drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-
room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping
the furniture, and chafing against inaction.

"Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.

In was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything
of criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a
possible war, and of an impending change of government; but these
did not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see
nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace
and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed hs restless meanderings.

"The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him.
"Look out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are
dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The
thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the
tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident
only to his victim."

"There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."

Holmes snorted his contempt.

"This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy
than that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I
am not a criminal."

"It is, indeed!" said I heartily.

"Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men
who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive
against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all
would be over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the
Latin countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here
comes something at last to break our dead monotony."

It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst
out laughing.

"Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming
round."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car