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On the evening of Friday, April 24, 1891, I was surprised to see my old friend, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, visit me. I hadn’t seen much of him in the past few months. The last I heard, he was in Paris working on a secret project for the French government.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “It’s so nice to see you! Are you alright? You look even paler and thinner than usual.”
“I’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” he admitted, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Do you mind if I close your shutters?” Without waiting for my answer, he went from window to window, closing and bolting the shutters. The room grew dim, with only a lamp on the table providing light.
“Are you afraid of something?” I asked.
“Yes, I am,” he replied.
“Afraid of what?”
“Air guns.”
“My dear Holmes, what are you talking about?”
“I’m not a fearful man, Watson, but I’m not foolish either. It would be foolish not to recognize danger when it’s near.”
Holmes sat down in an armchair. “I apologize for coming so late,” he said.
“That’s alright,” I responded.
“Would it be a problem if I leave your house later by climbing over your back garden wall?”
