Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for
exercise's sake. Few men were capable of greater
muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the
finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but
he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of
energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when
there was some professional object to be served. Then
he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable. That he
should have kept himself in training under such
circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was usually
of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the
verge of austerity. Save for the occasional use of
cocaine, he had no vices, and he only turned to the
drug as a protest against the monotony of existence
when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.

One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to
go for a walk with me in the Park, where the first
faint shoots of green were breaking out upon the elms,
and the sticky spear-heads of the chestnuts were just
beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves. For
two hours we rambled about together, in silence for
the most part, as befits two men who know each other
intimately. It was nearly five before we were back in
Baker Street once more.

"Beg pardon, sir," said our page-boy, as he opened the
door. "There's been a gentleman here asking for you,
sir."