th a key the back door of a house. We entered
together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty
house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my
outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging in
ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me
forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the
door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right and we found ourselves
in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but
faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There
was no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could
only just discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand
upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

"Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the dim
window.

"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old
quarters."

"But why are we here?"

"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile. Might
I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window,
taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our
old rooms--the starting-point of so many of your little fairy-tales? We
will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power
to surprise you."

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes
fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down,
and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who
was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the
luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the
head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features.
The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of
those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my
hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He was
quivering with silent laughter.

"Well?" said he.

"Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."

"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety,"
said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the
artist takes in his own creation. "It really is rather like me, is it
no