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I repeated my question.

“No magic, Watson: one simply has to watch the end of the pencil in order to establish what is being written. It’s a trick every detective should know. Now we have to establish who or what Ferregamo is—”

“That would be a Julius Ferregamo, of Bedford Square.”

“Your average is rising, Watson. That’s twice in a single day you’ve managed to render me speechless. I retract my earlier criticism. How do you come by this information?”

“No magic, Holmes. It just so happens that I met the fellow at a luncheon at the Langham Hotel. It was a good many years ago, but his reputation as London’s premier art collector was unequalled even then. Many pretenders to the throne have come and gone in the interval, and Ferregamo retains his supremacy. Half-Italian, you know, but still quite a decent chap for all that.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate your finding him so, Watson.” Again, he winced, and clutched at his stomach.

“Holmes, you’re unwell. We must get you back to Baker Street.”

“If I am unwell, then I am extremely fortunate in having a physician at my side at all times.” He rapped upon the roof of the carriage with his stick. “Driver, we’ve changed our minds! Take us to Bedford Square.”

I shifted uneasily in my seat, as Redfern’s painting brushed against my leg, and told myself that the chill I felt was entirely imaginary. I remembered Holmes’ old maxim that the more bizarre a crime appears, the less mysterious it proves to be, and I wondered whether we might be witnessing the exception to that particular rule.

Julius Ferregamo was almost exactly as I recalled him from that luncheon so many years before. Where the years had taken their toll on my brow and waistline, he was as trim and dandified as ever, as he greeted us in the parlor of his lavish abode.

“Doctor, so good to see you again. Still producing your little yarns? How charming! And this must be Sherlock Holmes! You’re very fortunate to catch me at home, you know. I’ve been in Amsterdam for some time, negotiating for a Hans Holbein. You’re familiar with Holbein, I imagine?”

“Only with Anton Holbein, the Augsburg poisoner,” Holmes answered. “The doctor will tell you that I have only the crudest notions about—” My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. His eyes rolled upward, and his features writhed. For a fleeting moment, I feared he might be on the verge of collapse.

“Are you ill, Mr. Holmes?” Ferregamo enquired.

“Merely beginning to regret my dining habits, sir.” He laughed weakly.

“I always dine at Les Freres Heureux when I’m of a mind, but as I passed it today, it seemed to be closed. I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes, you were saying something about your crude notions?”

“Concerning art, Mr. Ferregamo. In fact, I came here today to ask your opinion on a piece I recently acquired. That is, if you would deign to cast your expert eye..?” He passed the painting to the Italian, who accepted it cautiously. As Holmes released his grip on it, a curious change seemed to come over his face, as though the cause of his discomfort had suddenly evaporated.

“For a friend of the doctor, how could I refuse?” He unrolled the painting with care. “I must warn you, if you are hoping to make a fortune from it, you are likely to be disappointed.”

“Mr. Holmes is interested in art for its own sake,” I explained. “But of late, I’ve learned a great deal about the importance of money in your world, Julius.”

“Oh, indeed!” he beamed. “Why, that Hogarth etching behind you has probably appreciated in value about £100 since you entered my home. Why, this is very fine indeed.”

Knowing that my own artistic impulses — though keener than Holmes’ — were nowhere near as refined as Ferregamo’s, I was cheered by the fact that our view of Algernon Redfern’s abilities tallied.

“I should say that this would be the pride of your collection, Mr. Holmes,” he went on. Given that Holmes’ entire collection was made up of illustrations from the crime news, I was forced to agree.

“I