In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fogsettled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubtwhether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to seethe loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent incross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third hadbeen patiently occupied upon a subject which he had recently made hishobby--the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth time,after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavybrown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops uponthe window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endurethis drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about oursitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tappingthe furniture, and chafing against inaction.
"Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.
I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything ofcriminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possiblewar, and of an impending change of government; but these did not comewithin the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded inthe shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmesgroaned and resumed his restless meanderings.
"The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in thequerulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look outthis window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, andthen blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderercould roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseenuntil 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 thanthat," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I am not acriminal."
"It is, indeed!" said I heartily.
"Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men whohave good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive againstmy 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--thecountries of assassination. By Jove! here comes something at last tobreak our dead monotony."
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst outlaughing.
"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 coming down a country lane.Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings, theDiogenes Club, Whitehall--that is his cycle. Once, and only once, hehas been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?"
"Does he not explain?"
Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.
| "Must see you over Cadogan West. Coming at once." |
| MYCROFT. |
"Cadogan West? I have heard the name."
"It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out inthis erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. By theway, do you know what Mycroft is?"
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of theAdventure of the Greek