It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will
excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he
might trace the actual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and
I, and had returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's
evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
Appledore Towers,
Hampstead.
Agent.
"Who is he?" I asked.
"The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat
down and stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the
back of the card?"
I turned it over.
"Will call at 6:30 -- C. A. M.," I read.
"Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the
Zoo, and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with
their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how
Milverton impresses me.
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