On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which Ihave during the last eight years studied the methods of my friendSherlock Holmes， I find many tragic， some comic， a large numbermerely strange， but none commonplace； for， working as he didrather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth，he refused to associate himself with any investigation whichdid not tend towards the unusual， and even the fantastic. Of allthese varied cases， however， I cannot recall any which presentedmore singular features than that which was associated with thewell-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. Theevents in question occurred in the early days of my associationwith Holmes， when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in BakerStreet. It is possible that I might have placed them upon recordbefore， but a promise of secrecy was made at the time， from whichI have only been freed during the last month by the untimelydeath of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps aswell that the facts should now come to light， for I have reasonsto know that there are widespread rumours as to the death ofDr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even moreterrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morningto find Sherlock Holmes standing， fully dressed， by the side ofmy bed. He was a late riser， as a rule， and as the clock on themantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven，I blinked up at him in some surprise， and perhaps just a littleresentment， for I was myself regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up， Watson，” said he， “but it’s thecommon lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up， sheretorted upon me， and I on you.”
“What is it， then—a fire？”
“No； a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in aconsiderable state of excitement， who insists upon seeing me.
She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now， when young ladieswander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning， andknock sleepy people up out of their beds， I presume that it issomething very pressing which they have to communicate. Shouldit prove to be an interesting case， you would， I am sure， wish tofollow it from the outset. I thought， at any rate， that I should callyou and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow， I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in hisprofessional investigations， and in admiring the rapid deductions，as swift as intuitions， and yet always founded on a logical basiswith which he unravelled the problems which were submitted tohim. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutesto accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressedin black and heavily veiled， who had been sitting in the window，rose as we entered.
“Good-morning， madam，” said Holmes cheerily. “My name isSherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate， Dr.
Watson， before whom you can speak as freely as before myself.
Ha！ I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense tolight the fire. Pray draw up to it， and I shall order you a cup of hotcoffee， for I observe that you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver，” said the woman in a lowvoice， changing her seat as requested.
“What， then？”
“It is fear， Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as shespoke， and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state ofagitation， her face all drawn and grey， with restless frightened eyes，like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure werethose of a woman of thirty， but her hair was shot with prematuregrey， and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmesran her over with one of his quick， all-comprehensive glances.
“You must not fear，” said he soothingly， bending forward andpatting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right， I have nodoubt. You have come in by train this morning， I see.”
“You know me， then？”
“No， but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palmof your left glove. You must have started early， and yet you had agood drive in a dog-cart， along heavy roads， before you reachedthe station.”
The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at mycompanion.
“There is no mystery， my dear madam，” said he， smiling. “Theleft arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than sevenplaces. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save adog-cart which throws up mud in that way， and then only whenyou sit on the left-hand side of the driver.”
“Whatever your reasons may be， you are perfectly correct，”
said she. “I started from home before six， reached Leatherhead attwenty past， and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir， I canstand this strain no longer； I shall go mad if it continues. I haveno one to turn to—none， save only one， who cares for me， and he，poor fellow， can be of little aid. I have heard of you， Mr. Holmes；I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh， whom you helped in thehour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address.
Oh， sir， do you not think that you could help me， too， and at leastthrow a little light through the dense darkness which surroundsme？ At present it is out of my power to reward you for yourservices， but in a month or six weeks I shall be married， with thecontrol of my own income， and then at least you shall not find meungrateful.”
Holmes turned to his desk and， unlocking it， drew out a smallcase-book， which he consulted.
“Farintosh，” said he. “Ah yes， I recall the case； it was concernedwith an opal tiara. I think it was before your time， Watson. Ican only say， madam， that I shall be happy to devote the samecare to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward，my profession is its own reward； but you are at liberty to defraywhatever expenses I may be put to， at the time which suits youbest. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything thatmay help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.”