said I, gripping my stick in the defensive position familiar to my service in India and Afghanistan. “Here is a proper cut-throat.” Sherlock Holmes and I were returning from a constitutional which I as his physician had prescribed. For a fortnight, my friend and fellow-lodger had not ventured outside our smoke-filled digs, even to breathe the comparatively less sinister air of greater London, and I feared more than usually for his health. His confinement comprised an investigation into the mysterious death of Edmond Warworthy, Bart., whose solution Holmes eventually discovered in an entry made some thirty years previously in his journals. These ran to fifty-six volumes dated between 1 January 1832 and 11 August 1888, the day upon which Sir Edmond died. Our evening out was a balmy one in early September. A trade wind had extinguished the noxious yellow fog that is so typical of autumn in our metropolis, and a sunset of staggering beauty was in full cry over Middlesex, painting the blackest chimneys the colour of claret.
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