"Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the
shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is
Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not--"

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in
connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much,
Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or
such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any
objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure?
A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would
be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my
intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are
an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am
in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make
your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the
other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers
as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the