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old and new, and your suppleness indicates that the theories about bee stings as a therapy for rheumatism have some basis. Or is it arthritis?”

    “Rheumatism, in my case.”

    “Also, I think it possible that you have not entirely given up your former life, or perhaps it has not entirely given you up. I see a vague area of pale skin on your chin, which shows that some time last summer you had a goatee, since shaven off. There hasn’t been enough sun yet to erase the line completely. As you don’t normally wear a beard, and would, in my opinion, look unpleasant with one, I can assume it was for the purpose of a disguise, in a rôle which lasted some months. Probably it had to do with the early stages of the war. Spying against the Kaiser, I should venture to say.”

    His face went blank, and he studied me without any trace of expression for a long minute. I squelched a self-conscious smile. At last he spoke.

    “I did ask for it, did I not? Are you familiar with the work of Dr. Sigmund Freud?”

    “Yes, although I find the work of the next, as it were, generation more helpful. Freud is overly obsessed with exceptional behavior: an aid to your line of work, perhaps, but not as useful for a generalist.”

    There was a sudden commotion in the flower bed. Two orange cats shot out and raced along the lawn and disappeared through the opening in the garden wall. His eyes followed them, and he sat squinting into the low sun.

    “Twenty years ago,” he murmured. “Even ten. But here? Now?” He shook his head and focussed again on me. “What will you read at University?”

    I smiled. I couldn’t help it; I knew just how he was going to react, and I smiled, anticipating his dismay.

    “Theology.”

    His reaction was as violent as I had known it would be, but if I was sure of anything in my life, it was that. We took a walk through the gloaming to the cliffs, and I had my look at the sea while he wrestled with the idea, and by the time we returned he had decided that it was no worse than anything else, though he considered it a waste, and said so. I did not respond.

    The automobile arrived shortly thereafter, and Mrs. Hudson came out to pay for it. Holmes explained our agreement, to her amusement, and she promised to make a note of it.

    “I have an experiment to finish tonight, so you must pardon me,” he said, though it did not take many visits before I knew that he disliked saying goodbye. I put out my hand and nearly snatched it back when he raised it to his lips rather than shaking it as he had before. He held on to it, brushed it with his cool lips, and let it go.

    “Please come to see us anytime you wish. We are on the telephone, by the way. Ask the exchange for Mrs. Hudson, though; the good ladies sometimes decide to protect me by pretending ignorance, but they will usually permit calls to go through to her.” With a nod he began to turn away, but I interrupted his exit.

    “Mr. Holmes,” I said, feeling myself go pink, “may I ask you a question?”

    “Certainly, Miss Russell.”

    “How does The Valley of Fear end?” I blurted out.

    “The what ?” He sounded astonished.

    “ Valley of Fear. In The Strand . I hate these serials, and next month is the end of it, but I just wondered if you could tell me, well, how it turned out.”

    “This is one of Watson’s tales, I take it?”

    “Of course. It’s the case of Birlstone and the Scowrers and John McMurdo and Professor Moriarty and—”

    “Yes, I believe I can identify the case, although I have often wondered why, if Conan Doyle so likes pseudonyms, he couldn’t have given them to Watson and myself as well.”

    “So how did it end?”

    “I haven’t the faintest notion. You would have to ask Watson.”

    “But surely you know how the case ended,” I said, amazed.

    “The case, certainly. But what Watson has made of it, I couldn’t begin to guess, except that there is bound to be gore and passion and secret handshakes. Oh, and