ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn’t we use a little art

jargon. There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless

skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every

inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her

bowing are splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays so

magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”

 

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while

I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

 

CHAPTER V.

 

OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.

 

Our morning’s exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was tired

out in the afternoon. After Holmes’ departure for the concert, I lay down upon

the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours’ sleep.

 

It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that had

occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into it.

 

Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted baboon-like

countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the impression which that face

had produced upon me that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude

for him who had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke