The Return of Sherlock Holmes | Page 6

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

forward 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 starting- point of so many of your little
fairy-tales? 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 recognized 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