Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Murdered Script

In the first days of January ‘17, the Arctic air frosted over London forcing even the most careless citizen of that metropolis to accept the mastery of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation. Holmes would not move from his fire, and was as moody as only he could be when he had no case to interest him.

‘Why,’ said I, glancing up at my companion, ‘that was surely the bell. Who could come tonight? Some friend of yours, perhaps?’

‘Except yourself I have none,’ he answered.

‘A client, then?’

‘If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady’s.’

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door.