“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that.  I shall be true to Hosmer.  He shall find me ready when he comes back.”

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect.  She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table, and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger tips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling.  Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counselor, and, having lighted it, he leaned back in his chair, with thick blue cloud wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.

“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed.  “I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one.  You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last year.  Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me.  But the maiden herself was most instructive.”

“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked.

“Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson.  You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important.  I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot lace.  Now, what did you gather from that woman’s appearance?  Describe it.”

“Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red.  Her jacket was black, with black beads sewed upon it and a fringe of little black jet ornaments.  Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee color, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves.  Her gloves were grayish, and were worn through at the right forefinger.  Her boots I didn’t observe.  She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do, in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

“’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully.  You have really done very well indeed.  It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for color.  Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details.  My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve.  In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser.  As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeve, which is a most useful material for showing traces.  The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined.  The sewing machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was.  I then glanced at her face, and observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.”