A young doctor, named Vemer, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask — an incident which only explained itself some years later, when I found that Vemer was a distant relation of Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

His cold and proud nature was always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his successes.

My companion’s expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

Lestrade had learned by more experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that razor-like brain could cut through that which was impenetrable to him.

For an hour he droned away upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits.

“All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the other.”

“So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of a failure. And yet — and yet —” he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction— “I know it’s all wrong. I feel it in my bones.”

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with the early editions of the morning papers.

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. “At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,” he would say in answer to my medical remonstrances.

Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive attack of laughter.

Holmes was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed excitement as he spoke.

Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect gleams of amusement in his expression.

Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside three untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of merriment.

Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.

“You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little pomp and ceremony now.”

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.
“Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade.”
“And you don’t want your name to appear?”
“Not at all. The work is its own reward.”

“We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning.”

“I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have observed.”

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