A Study in Scarlet (Sherlock Holmes, #1)

by Arthur Conan Doyle

Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.

“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough.”

“Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to cold-bloodedness.

“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit.

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

“I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose.

Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent.

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them.

I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.

“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret Nature,”

“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn.

“The plot thickens.” “It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair.