The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet

“Holmes,” I remarked once, looking out the window at the street, “some kind of maniac is rushing here. It’s astonishing that his family lets him go out alone.”

My friend rose sluggishly from his chair and, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing gown, leaned over my shoulder to look beyond it.

It was a clear, frosty February morning. The snow from yesterday still lay on the ground in a solid layer and glittered in the sun. Closer to the center of Baker Street, the wheels of carriages had churned it into a dirty brown strip, but along the edges and on the raised parts of the pavement it remained just as unspoiled and white as it had immediately after the snowfall.

The gray paving stones had been swept and scraped, yet they were still treacherously slippery, so there were fewer passersby than usual that day.

To be honest, on the side of the main station there was only a single gentleman—his strange appearance was what caught my attention.