change the topic.

 

“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I asked, pointing to a stalwart,

plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the

street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his

hand, and was evidently the bearer of a message.

 

“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” said Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He knows that I cannot verify his

guess.”

 

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching

caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We

heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.

 

“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend

the letter.

 

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little thought of

this when he made that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I said, in the blandest

voice, “what your trade may be?”

 

“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform away for repairs.”