indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put
his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare
you for a few hours?"

"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very
absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City
first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that
there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is
rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is
introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular
story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,
little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy
two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in
enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and
uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
"JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side
and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down