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← The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 11: The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet

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"Holmes,"

said

I

as

I

stood

one

morning

in

our

bow-window

looking

down

the

street,

"here

is

a

madman

coming

along.

It

seems

rather

sad

that

his

relatives

should

allow

him

to

come

out

alone."

My

friend

rose

lazily

from

his

armchair

and

stood

with

his

hands

in

the

pockets

of

his

dressing-gown,

looking

over

my

shoulder.

It

was

a

bright,

crisp

February

morning,

and

the

snow

of

the

day

before

still

lay

deep

upon

the

ground,

shimmering

brightly

in

the

wintry

sun.

Down

the

centre

of

Baker

Street

it

had

been

ploughed

into

a

brown

crumbly

band

by

the

traffic,

but

at

either

side

and

on

the

heaped-up

edges

of

the

footpaths

it

still

lay

as

white

as

when

it

fell.

The

grey

pavement

had

been

cleaned

and

scraped,

but

was

still

dangerously

slippery,

so

that

there

were

fewer

passengers

than

usual.

Indeed,

from

the

direction

of

the

Metropolitan

Station

no

one

was

coming

save

the

single

gentleman

whose

eccentric

conduct

had

drawn

my

attention.

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