A Stormy Night at Baker Street
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It is the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales have set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind has screamed and the rain has beaten against the windows of 221B Baker Street. As evening draws in, the storm grows louder, sobbing like a child in the chimney.
Sherlock Holmes sits moodily at one side of the fireplace, cross-indexing his records of crime. You, Dr. Watson, are reading a sea-story, the howl of the gale blending with the text.
Suddenly, the bell rings.
"Why," you say, glancing up, "that was surely the bell. Who could come tonight?"
"If it is a client, it is a serious case," Holmes remarks. "Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day."