'Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his summons
has been entirely justified,' said Holmes. 'I fancy that every one of
his cases has found its way into your collection, and I must admit,
Watson, that you have some power of selection, which atones for much
which I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of looking at
everything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientific
exercise has ruined what might have been an instructive and even
classical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost
finesse and delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which
may excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.'

'Why do you not write them yourself?' I said, with some bitterness.

'I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know, fairly
busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the composition of
a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of detection into one volume.
Our present research appears to be a case of murder.'

'You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?'

'I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable agitation, and he
is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been violence, and that
the body is left for our inspection. A mere suicide would not have
caused him to send for me. As to the release of the lady, it would
appear that she has been locked in her room during the tragedy. We are
moving in high life, Watson, crackling paper, 'E.B.' monogram,
coat-of-arms, picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will live
up to his reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
crime was committed before twelve last night.'