I shrank down into a corner of the reserve trench. The fifteen inches of
half-frozen mud caused my old wound from an Afghan bullet to ache
viciously. I longed for some wounded to arrive--anything to end this
chilly inactivity. A tall officer in staff uniform jumped into the
trench beside me.
"You are wishing yourself back in Baker Street," he remarked.
"How did you know?" I exclaimed. "Why, Holmes, what are _you_ doing
here?"
"Business, my dear Watson, business. Moriarty is becoming troublesome
again."
"But he was drowned."
"Far too clever to be drowned in that pool. Merely stranded on the edge
like myself. But I had made England too hot for him. You can guess his
name."
"Not the K----!"
"Watson, Watson, Moriarty was my mental equal. Now he calls himself von
Kluck."