The next hour or so was one of the least comfortable periods of my life. Though calm, Irene Adler was keyed up to a kind of tense stillness, and was in no mood for conversation. Her whole being seemed concentrated on awaiting the issue of Sherlock Holmes' efforts that day. I sat in one chair, then another; looked at a newspaper and at a magazine; admired a vase on the mantel and a porcelain shepherdess on a small table; and consulted my watch each half-hour or so, as it seemed, although the hands usually proved to have moved no more than ten or twelve minutes each time. Heller's appearance with a pot of tea and some sweet biscuits cheered me up, after an hour of this atmosphere, as much as might one of those roistering banquets Dickens describes so vividly. It was close upon eight o'clock when the jangle of the doorbell brought Irene Adler and myself to our feet. As I descended the stairs, I saw Heller opening the door to admit a tall fellow in chauffeur's livery and peaked cap, sporting a giant handlebar moustache.
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