Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a
woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I
have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or
when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title
of _the_ woman.
_The Red-Headed League_
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of
last year, and found him in deep conversation with a very stout,
florid-faced elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair. With an apology for
my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me abruptly into
the room and closed the door behind me.
"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he
said, cordially.
"I was afraid that you were engaged."
"So I am. Very much so."
"Then I can wait in the next room."
"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in
many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of
the utmost use to me in yours also."
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting,
with a quick little questioning glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes.
"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair, and putting
his finger tips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.
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