The hour was late for one associated with the great detective. Seizing a robe and stepping into my bedroom slippers, I descended to the sitting room eager to learn what Holmes's first move would be, or possibly had already been. But my progress came to an abrupt halt when, through the half-open door I perceived a complete stranger seated at Holmes's desk, who had the effrontery to go over papers on it. At least, this bewhiskered rascal was reading a letter with great interest. He had a sharp, wizened face that peered from behind thick glasses. His back was bowed with age, but that did not incline me toward an abandonment of caution. I well-remembered the evil menace of the ancient Colonel Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man in London, On tiptoes, I retraced my steps to secure my army-issue handgun. In Holmes's absence this white-haired interloper was not going to make free of our habitat if I could help it. Back at the sitting-room door, I eased my Webley to full cock and was about to confront the bounder when a familiar voice called to me.
