"Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the
dim window.
"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to
our own old quarters."
"But why are we here?"
"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque
pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little
nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show
yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms -- the starting-point
of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three
years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise
you."
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As
my eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The
blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The
shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in
hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window.
There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of
the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned
half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhou-
ettes which our grandparents loved to frame.
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