chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and

cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether

the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of

a whim or fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against

these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by

playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight

compensation for the trial upon my patience.

 

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think that my

companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently, however, I found

that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most different classes of

society. There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was

introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single

week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half

an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,

looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was

closely followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old

white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on another a

railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescript

individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the

sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room.

 

He always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. “I have to use

this room as a place of business,” he said, “and these people are my clients.”

Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point blank question, and again my