CHAPTER II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.
“ You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“ I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“ So I am. Very much so.”
“ Then I can wait in the next room.”
“ Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and
