It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,
even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal person
concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due
suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no
one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse
me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might
trace the actual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and
had returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s
evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
Appledore Towers,
Hampstead.
_Agent_.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and
stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of
the card?”