"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the
death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
with you," I answered.

"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as he pushed
back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The community is certainly
the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work specialist,
whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field, one's morning
paper presented infinite possibilities. Often it was only the smallest
trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me
that the great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of
the edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the
centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--to the man
who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole. To the
scientific student of the higher criminal world, no capital in Europe
offered the advantages which London then possessed. But now----" He
shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things
which he had himself done so much to produce.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some months,
and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to share the old
quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my
small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the
highest price that I ventured to ask--an incident which only explained
itself some years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation
of Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.