Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who usually got up very late—unless something happened and he didn’t even go to bed at all—was sitting at breakfast. I, meanwhile, stood by the fireplace on the rug and held the cane left by our guest the previous evening. It was a handsome, heavy stick with a round knob. A little below the knob, a wide silver ferrule encircled it—about an inch. And on the metal there was an inscription: “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends at S.S.N.” and a date: “1884.” The cane was the kind worn by old-fashioned family doctors: solid, sturdy, and reassuring.