"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by
anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with
the somewhat fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.
"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or
ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same
cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with
romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked
a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of
Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper
with the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point
in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical
reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in
unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been
specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was
irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line
of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings. More
than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker
Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion's
quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat
nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet through it some
time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it