y. It is true that the circumstance did
not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my
friend was famous, but there were some points about the case which made
it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather the
material for these little narratives.

On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was upon
Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith.
Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for he was
immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated problem
concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the
well known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who
loved above all things precision and concentration of thought, resented
anything which distracted his attention from the matter in hand.
And yet, without a harshness which was foreign to his nature, it was
impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful
woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker
Street late in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It
was vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the
young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and it was
evident that nothing short of force could get her out of the room until
she had done so. With a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes
begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat, and to inform us what it
was that was troubling her.

"At least it cannot be your health," said he, as his keen eyes darted
over her, "so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy."

She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the slight
roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction of the edge of
the pedal.

"Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do
with my visit to you to-day."

My friend took the lady's ungloved hand, and examined it with as close
an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show to a
specimen.

"You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business," said he, as he
dropped it. "I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were
typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe
the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to both professions?
There is a spirituality about the face, however"--she gently turned it
towards the light--"which the typewriter does not generate. This lady is