The Return of Sherlock Holmes | Page 9

starting-point of so many of our little
adventures? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely
taken away my power to surprise you."
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes
fell upon it I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down
and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who
was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the
luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of
the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features.
The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those
black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my
hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He
was quivering with silent laughter.
"Well?" said he.
"Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."
"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety,'"
said he, and I recognised in his voice the joy and pride which the artist
takes in his own creation. "It really is rather like me, is it not?"
"I should be prepared to swear that it was you."
"The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in
wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this
afternoon."
"But why?"
"Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really
elsewhere."
"And you thought the rooms were watched?"
"I KNEW that they were watched."

"By whom?"
"By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader
lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, and
only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that
I should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously,
and this morning they saw me arrive."
"How do you know?"
"Because I recognised their sentinel when I glanced out of my window.
He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade,
and a remarkable performer upon the Jew's harp. I cared nothing for
him. But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who
was behind him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped
the rocks over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in
London. That is the man who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is
the man who is quite unaware that we are after HIM."
My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
convenient retreat the watchers were being watched and the trackers
tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait and we were the
hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the
hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was
silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that
his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. It was a
bleak and boisterous night, and the wind whistled shrilly down the long
street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in
their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen
the same figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared
to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention to
them, but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience and continued to
stare into the street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and
tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that
he was becoming uneasy and that his plans were not working out
altogether as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the
street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him when
I raised my eyes to the lighted window and again experienced almost as
great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm and pointed

upwards.
"The shadow has moved!" I cried.
It was, indeed, no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned
towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or
his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.
"Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical bungler,
Watson, that I should erect an obvious