My companion put
his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.
"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.
"Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the
dim window.
"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our
own old quarters."
"But why are we here?"
"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile.
Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to
the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself,
and then to look up at our old rooms -- the starting-point of so
many of our little adventures? We will see if my three years of
absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise you."
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window.
As my eyes fell upon it I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement.
The blind was down and a strong light was burning in the room.
The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in
hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window.
There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of
the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was
turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black
silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame.
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