Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his notebook, and handed it to him.

“And mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.

“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”

Holmes took a note of it.  “One other question,” said he, thoughtfully.  “Was the photograph a cabinet?”

“It was.”

“Then, good-night, your majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you.  And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street.  “If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon, at three o’clock, I should like to chat this little matter over with you.”

II

At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned.  The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning.  I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be.  I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own.  Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries.  So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room.  Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he.  With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old.  Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire, and laughed heartily for some minutes.

“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked, and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

“What is it?”

“It’s quite too funny.  I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.”

“I can’t imagine.  I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and, perhaps, the house, of Miss Irene Adler.”