alked away. "He is, in my
judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring, I am not
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him
before."

"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 mean 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,[224-1] Holmes, the relentless, keen-witted,