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The
Lord
St.
Simon
marriage,
and
its
curious
termination,
have
long
ceased
to
be
a
subject
of
interest
in
those
exalted
circles
in
which
the
unfortunate
bridegroom
moves.
Fresh
scandals
have
eclipsed
it,
and
their
more
piquant
details
have
drawn
the
gossips
away
from
this
four-year-old
drama.
As
I
have
reason
to
believe,
however,
that
the
full
facts
have
never
been
revealed
to
the
general
public,
and
as
my
friend
Sherlock
Holmes
had
a
considerable
share
in
clearing
the
matter
up,
I
feel
that
no
memoir
of
him
would
be
complete
without
some
little
sketch
of
this
remarkable
episode.
It
was
a
few
weeks
before
my
own
marriage,
during
the
days
when
I
was
still
sharing
rooms
with
Holmes
in
Baker
Street,
that
he
came
home
from
an
afternoon
stroll
to
find
a
letter
on
the
table
waiting
for
him.
I
had
remained
indoors
all
day,
for
the
weather
had
taken
a
sudden
turn
to
rain,
with
high
autumnal
winds,
and
the
jezail
bullet
which
I
had
brought
back
in
one
of
my
limbs
as
a
relic
of
my
Afghan
campaign
throbbed
with
dull
persistence.
With
my
body
in
one
easy-chair
and
my
legs
upon
another,
I
had
surrounded
myself
with
a
cloud
of
newspapers
until
at
last,
saturated
with
the
news
of
the
day,
I
tossed
them
all
aside
and
lay
listless,
watching
the
huge
crest
and
monogram
upon
the
envelope
upon
the
table
and
wondering
lazily
who
my
friend's
noble
correspondent
could
be.
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