querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him.
"Look out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are
dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The
thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the
tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident
only to his victim."

"There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."

Holmes snorted his contempt.

"This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy
than that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I
am not a criminal."

"It is, indeed!" said I heartily.

"Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men
who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive
against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all
would be over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the
Latin countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here
comes something at last to break our dead monotony."

It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst
out laughing.

"Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming
round."