"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-Headed League. I am sure that you inquired
your way merely in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner
from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to
it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which convey the traffic of the city to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce, flowing
in a double tide inward and outward, while the foot-paths were black
with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize,
as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises,
that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses
here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.
There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the
Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian
Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us
right on to the other block. And now, doctor, we've done our work, so
it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then
off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
capable performer, but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
gently waving his long thin fingers in time to the music, while his
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and
his extreme exactness and astuteness represented