“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his case across.  “I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson here would prescribe a sedative.  The weather has been so very warm these last few days.  Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair, and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is that you want.  You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you.”

Familiar as I was with my friend’s methods, it was not difficult for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which had prompted them.  Our client, however, stared in amazement.

“Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most unfortunate man at this moment in London.  For heaven’s sake, don’t abandon me, Mr. Holmes!  If they come to arrest me before I have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may tell you the whole truth.  I could go to jail happy if I knew that you were working for me outside.”

“Arrest you!” said Holmes.  “This is really most grati—­most interesting.  On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”

“Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood.”

My companion’s expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

“Dear me,” said he, “it was only this moment at breakfast that I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had disappeared out of our papers.”

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the daily telegraph, which still lay upon Holmes’s knee.

“If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning.  I feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man’s mouth.”  He turned it over to expose the central page.  “Here it is, and with your permission I will read it to you.  Listen to this, Mr. Holmes.  The headlines are:  ’Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood.  Disappearance of a Well Known Builder.  Suspicion of Murder and Arson.  A Clue to the Criminal.’  That is the clue which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it leads infallibly to me.  I have been followed from London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant to arrest me.  It will break my mother’s heart—­it will break her heart!” He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backward and forward in his chair.

I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the perpetrator of a crime of violence.  He was flaxen-haired and handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth.  His age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that of a gentleman.  From the pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his profession.