On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully
at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.
"Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.
"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes -- nothing very particular."
"Then tell me about it."
Lestrade laughed.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is
something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business,
that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand,
although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that
you have a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my
opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours."
"Disease?" said I.
"Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn't
think there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a
hatred of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of
him that he could see."
Holmes sank back in his chair.
"That's no business of mine," said he.
"Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man com-
mits burglary in order to break images which are not his own,
that brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.
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