A rather weak one, perhaps, to be so easily led from domestic and professional rectitude by an individual as apparently erratic as this Sherlock Holmes. Certainly I had wondered whether Watson had in fact visited Briony Lodge in company with the vaunted detective and the foiled King. I remembered the detective’s companion as an ordinary, quite overlookable sort of person. I had not anticipated the solid citizen who now stood before me, a man not yet forty who was built like a boxer and possessed of a certain symmetry of feature as well as an unassuming mustache that made me miss Godfrey’s adornment.“Mr. Marshwine?” the gentleman inquired. “Miss... er, Buxleigh?”“Indeed,” said Godfrey as he rose, thereby avoiding an outright lie.I myself was pleased to be mistaken for the fictional Miss Buxleigh, given our violations of hospitality in our host’s absence. This Dr. Watson certainly did not look like a writer, nor like a person who could be led willy-nilly by an extravagant but strong personality.
