“From the point of view of the criminal expert, London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”

You are leaning back in your chair, and are unfolding the morning paper in a leisurely fashion, when our attention is arrested bya tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone is beating on the outer doorwith his fist.

An instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man bursts into the room. He looks from one to the other of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he becomes conscious that some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.

He is flaxen-haired and handsome in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may be about twenty-seven; his dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat protrudes the bundle of endorsed papers which proclaims his profession. And he has got some kind of opaque layer on his right thumb.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cries. “You mustn’t blameme. I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”

He does an announcement as if the name alone would explain both his visit and its manner.

Dismiss him Offer him a cigarette