Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the
mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when
he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I
stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which
our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a
fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort
which is known as a ‘Penang lawyer.’ Just under the head
was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. ‘To James
Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,’ was
engraved upon it, with the date ‘1884.’ It was just such a
stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to
carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.
‘Well, Watson, what do you make of it?’
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had
given him no sign of my occupation.
‘How did you know what I was doing? I believe you
have eyes in the back of your head.’
‘I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot
in front of me,’ said he. ‘But, tell me, Watson, what do
you make of our visitor’s stick?
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