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“Even so, given the nature of our business in Paris, I must disclose that it would appear quite odd for her to have a lady’s maid or attendant.”
    “As long as Miss Mirabella is not alone in our company and there are other females present, I believe it will be deemed acceptable,” concluded Dr. Watson.
    “I must advise you, Watson, that if Miss Hudson continues in our service—and that is a very big ‘if’—” he glared at her as if issuing a warning, “it can only be a matter of time before she is found to be a person in our employ.   Servants are generally not afforded the same requirements as a lady of quality without occupation.   Miss Hudson will have to be the final judge if the risks to her matrimonial future are worth the benefits of an apprenticeship.   It would be very unlikely that she should marry outside her class anyway.   Maids marry footmen, and so on, and they adhere to a different set of rules regarding chaperonage than the upper class.”
    “To the contrary, Holmes, maids and other women in service are held to much stricter rules of conduct than upper class ladies,” remarked Watson.   “Female servants might be allowed one dance per year only to mix with eligible young men—outside of conniving to meet the butcher’s son at the servants’ door in the back of the house.   That or a chance conversation with the footman might be a maid’s only stolen moments.”  
    “I bow to your superior and no-doubt first-hand knowledge on the different ways which female domestics might contrive to engage in liaisons, Watson,” remarked Holmes, setting down the Globe and picking up his pipe from the marble end-table beside his chair.
    “I have no objection to occupation,” interjected Mirabella, finding some difficulty being included in the conversation purportedly about her as she continued to dust.   “I wish to be included on the cases.   I didn’t mean . . . I merely asked . . .”
    “Why are you always asking questions, filling the air with pointless sounds and otherwise obstructing the functioning of my mind?”   Sherlock sighed heavily, pressing the tobacco into his pipe.
    “When are we leaving?” asked Mirabella, suddenly turning from the fireplace.   “Or is that too much of a drain of your superior resources to bestow that information upon the lowly and undeserving likes of myself?”
    “Beyond a doubt it is.”   The beginnings of a smile fought to be formed on the Great Detective’s lips, causing his mouth to twitch as if he were determined not to be amused.  
    Sherlock motioned to her to light the candles on the mantelpiece as the last light was now coming through the open window.   Between the hand-held gas lamp, the various kerosene lamps in the apartment, the candlelight and the wallpaper of questionable taste in rose and dark brown with hints of purple in the triangular design, the study had a warm glow in the evening.   Mrs. Hudson had refused to install gas lighting saying that Mr. Sherlock bloody ‘Olmes didn’t need any help blowing up the building.  
    Mirabella herself often sat in front of the fire with Sherlock and Dr. Watson after their dinner—she was a decent cook though one would never know it by Sherlock’s matter-of-fact response to all meals, they were mere fuel to him—before retiring to her Aunt’s quarters on the first floor.  
    “Do you have a headache this evening, Miss Belle?” Sherlock directed his attention towards her again.
    “Yes . . .” she replied slowly.   “How did you know, Mr. Holmes?”
    “Your coloring is not at its usual glow.   And you are not wearing your glasses and yet are engaged in close-up work.   Generally you forfeit your glasses when you have the headache.”   He pulled a jar out of his pocket.   “Here, take one of these.   It will help your headache.   And it will help you sleep.”
    She took the jar, reading its contents aloud.   “Barbituric acid.”   She glanced at Dr. Watson, who