CHAPTER I. MR. Private detective HOLMES.

MR. Private detective HOLMES, who was normally really late in the mornings, save upon those not occasional occasions once he was up all night, was sitting at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitant had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is acknowledged as a "Penang lawyer." Simply under the head was a broad silver band, nearly an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was etched upon it, with the date "1884." It was simply such a stick as the old-fashioned family practician used to carry -- dignified, solid, and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you do of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his b