It was nearing Christmas, in the year 1895, and snow had fallen softly for most of the previous two days, followed by a sudden drop in temperature that edged the panes of our windows in Baker Street with feathers of frost. My friend, Sherlock Holmes, and I were both up early and had breakfasted and were looking out upon the whitened city.

Poe, in one of his Dupin stories, called it "meditation and a meerschaum," but Holmes was resting back upon a pile of cushions, puffing rings from the old blackened and broken clay that he kept by the window seat. I had lighted my favorite pipe as well and was looking out upon the vast city, finding it difficult, for the moment, to believe that there was aught to break the peace of that serene stillness. But, glancing over at my friend, the expression of thought upon his aquiline features convinced me, along with his restlessness of late over the relative dearth of cases "worthy" of his great talents, that our "eyrie" was about to be vacated, and the "eagle" was about to set forth.

"More like a hawk than an eagle," he said with a smile, tapping the dottle from his pipe into the palm of his hand.

"Holmes this is really too much!" I was forced to exclaim. "How could you possibly know precisely my thought of the moment?"

"You know my methods, Watson," he replied. "Actually this was simplicity itself, very elementary."

"I know you walked some trail you'll soon lead me down, but I'm flummoxed, I have to say."