Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to his memory.  We were in the middle of our lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet.  “By Jove, Watson, I’ve got it!” he cried.  “Take your hat!  Come with me!” He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus.  Here, on the left hand, there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the celebrities and beauties of the day.  Holmes’s eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head.  I looked at that delicately curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it.  Then I caught my breath as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman whose wife she had been.  My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS

It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police headquarters.  In return for the news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the newspapers.  Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar.  Holmes looked keenly at him.

“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—­nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is something on my mind.  And yet it is such an absurd business, that I hesitated to bother you about it.  On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out of the common.  But, in my opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”

“Disease?” said I.

“Madness, anyhow.  And a queer madness, too.  You wouldn’t think there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that he could see.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That’s no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly.  That’s what I said.  But then, when the man commits burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”