"
He had thrown off the seedy frock-coat, and now he was the
Holmes of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took
from his effigy.
"The old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness nor his
eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the
shattered forehead of his bust.
"Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through
the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that
there are few better in London. Have you heard the name?"
"No, I have not."
"Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember aright,
you had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had
one of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my
index of biographies from the shelf."
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and
blowing great clouds from his cigar.
"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he.
"Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious,
and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory,
and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room
at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of to-night.
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