In the window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of
the apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all
pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.
"Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade.
Holmes nodded.
"Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time.
No doubt it's just as they say. She knocked at the door --
surprise visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
compartments. He let her in -- couldn't keep her in the street.
She told him how she had traced him, reproached him, one thing
led to another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon
came. It wasn't all done in an instant, though, for these
chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as
if he had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it all clear
as if we had seen it."
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
"And yet you have sent for me?"
"Ah, yes, that's another matter -- a mere trifle, but the sort
of thing you take an interest in -- queer, you know, and what
you might call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main
fact -- can't have, on the face of it.
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