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Holmes sat motionless by the ﬁre, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes ﬁxed upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the street. “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished into the night. I understood that he had opened his cam-paign against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.
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