Sherlock Holmes’s prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown. “There’s a brougham waiting for us, Watson,” said he. “What’s the matter, then?” “The Brook Street business.” “Any fresh news?” “Tragic, but ambiguous,” said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at this—a sheet from a note-book, with ‘For God’s sake come at once—P. T.,’ scrawled upon it in pencil.
