The Return of Sherlock Holmes | Page 8

of my enemies was now left in London, I was
about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this
very remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by
its own merits, but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal
opportunities. I came over at once to London, called in my own person
at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found
that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they
had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day
I found myself in my old arm-chair in my own old room, and only
wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair
which he has so often adorned."
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April
evening -- a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me
had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure
and the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again. In
some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his
sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words. "Work is
the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson," said he, "and I have a
piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a
successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet."
In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see enough
before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the past to
discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the

notable adventure of the empty house."
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated
beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket and the thrill of
adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and silent. As the
gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features I saw that
his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I
knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark
jungle of criminal London, but I was well assured from the bearing of
this master huntsman that the adventure was a most grave one, while
the sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom
boded little good for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as he
stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at
every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that
he was not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one. Holmes's
knowledge of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this
occasion he passed rapidly, and with an assured step, through a network
of mews and stables the very existence of which I had never known.
We emerged at last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses,
which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here
he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a
house. We entered together and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch-dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty
house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my
outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging in
ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me
forwards down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over
the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right, and we found
ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the
corners, but faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond.
There was no lamp near and the window was thick with dust, so that
we could only just discern each other's figures within. My companion
put his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.
"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.
"Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the dim

window.
"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own
old quarters."
"But why are we here?"
"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile.
Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the
window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look
up at our old rooms -- the