“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,” remarked Sherlock Holmes,

sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger. “I have to be

careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for I dabble with poisons a

good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all

mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

 

“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged

stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. “My friend here

wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to

go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together.”

 

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. “I

have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down to

the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”

 

“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.

 

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do

experiments. Would that annoy you?”

 

“By no means.”

 

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and

don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do

that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now?