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“As you say, Holmes,” I replied and sat down opposite him and immersed myself in the latest edition of The Lancet. It was just half-past seven and we had closed the curtains against the sheeting rain when there came a hesitant tap at the sitting room door. The apparition which presented itself was indeed bizarre and Mrs Hudson’s matter of fact description had not prepared me for such a sight.

He was of great height, and his dark beard, turning slightly grey at the edges, now flecked with rain, hung down over his plaid cloak like a mat. His eyes were a brilliant blue beneath cavernous brows and his eyebrows, in contrast to the beard, were jet-black, which enhanced the piercing glance he gave to Holmes and myself. I had no time to take in anything else for I was now on my feet to extend a welcome. He stood just inside the door, water dripping from his clothing on to the carpet, looking owlishly from myself to Holmes, who had also risen from his chair.

“Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?” he said hesitantly in a deep bass voice.

“This is he,” I said, performing the introductions.

He gave an embarrassed look to both of us.

“I must apologize for this intrusion, gentlemen. Aristide Smedhurst at your service. Artist and writer, for my pains. I would not have bothered you, Mr Holmes, but I am in the most terrible trouble.”

“This is the sole purpose of this agency – to assist,” said Holmes, extending a thin hand to our strange guest.

“Watson, would you be so kind? I think, under the circumstances, a stiff whisky would not come amiss.”

“Of course, Holmes,” I said, hastening to the sideboard.

“That is most gracious of you, gentlemen,” said Smedhurst, allowing himself to be led to a comfortable chair by the fire.

As I handed him the whisky glass his face came forward into the light and I saw that he had an unnatural pallor on his cheeks.

“Thank you, Dr Watson.”

He gulped the fiery liquid gratefully and then, seeing Holmes’s sharp eyes upon him, gave an apologetic shrug.

“Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but if you had been through what I have experienced, it would be enough to shake even your iron nerve.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes in reassuring tones. “Pray do not apologize, my dear Mr Smedhurst. I observed when you first entered that your cape and trousers were covered in mud, as though you had fallen heavily. You have come all the way from Dorset today, I presume, so the matter must be serious.”

Our strange visitor gazed at Holmes open-mouthed.

“I did indeed have a nasty fall in my anxiety to catch my train. But how on earth could you know I came from Dorset?”

My old friend got up to light a spill for his pipe from the fire.

“There was nothing extraordinary about my surmise, I can assure you. Watson and I attended your exhibition at the Royal Academy last summer. Those extraordinary oils, water colours and pencil sketches of those weird landscapes remained long in my memory …”

“Why, of course, Holmes …” I broke in.

“And the exhibition catalogue, if I am not mistaken, gave your address in Dorset and said that you habitually worked in that fascinating part of the world,” Holmes went on smoothly. “But you have a problem, obviously.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. I thought Dorset was fascinating at first,” went on Smedhurst bitterly. “But no longer after my experiences of the past two years.”

“But you called earlier and then went away. Why was that?”

A haunted look passed across the bearded man’s face.

“I thought I was followed here,” he mumbled, draining his glass. He eagerly accepted the replenishment I offered him.

“You are among friends, Mr Smedhurst,” Holmes went on. “Pray take your time. You are staying in town, of course.”

“At the Clarence, yes.”

“An admirable establishment. Which means you are not pressed for time this evening?”

“No, sir.”

The haggard look was back on our visitor’s face.

“For God’s sake, Mr Holmes, help me! This ghastly thing has appeared again. Both my sanity and my life are at stake!”

2

There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the distant clatter of a passing hansom. Holmes waited