The Future Was With Fate.

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.

The Great Bell Of Beaulieu Was Ringing. Far Away Through The Forest Might Be Heard Its Musical Clangor And Swell.

There Was A Brisk Northern Wind, Heavy And Wet With The Salt Of The Sea, And He Felt, As He Turned His Face To It, Fresh Life And Strength Surging In His Blood And Bracing His Limbs.

You Know How Easily And Suddenly These Things Happen, Beginning In Playful Teasing And Ending In Something A Little Warmer Than Friendship. You Squeeze The Slender Arm Which Is Passed Through Yours, You Venture To Take The Little Gloved Hand, You Say Good Night At Absurd Length In The Shadow Of The Door. It Is Innocent And Very Interesting, Love Trying His Wings In A First Little Flutter.

I Had Neither Kith Nor Kin In England, And Was Therefore As Free As Air -- Or As Free As An Income Of Eleven Shillings And Sixpence A Day Will Permit A Man To Be. Under Such Circumstances, I Naturally Gravitated To London, That Great Cesspool Into Which All The Loungers And Idlers Of The Empire Are Irresistibly Drained.