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On a chilly day late in February 1897 Holmes and I were lunching in the Baker Street rooms, when a telegram arrived. This was hardly an unusual occurrence, but my engagement with Mrs Hudson’s mutton chop ceased immediately when Holmes’s face was suddenly transformed, flushed and with a glitter in his eyes, followed by an expression of extreme thoughtfulness. He handed the telegram to me, his brows drawn into two dark lines. It read: “Come at once. My club Mycroft.”

“When Brother Mycroft commands, and during the hour of luncheon at that, we may be sure that weighty matters are afoot, Watson.”

“Shall I accompany you, Holmes?”

“Why, certainly. We leave immediately. Mrs Hudson will no doubt forgive our abandonment of her excellent treacle pudding. I smell danger in its place, though of a form which I trust should have no need of your pistol.”

Within the half hour we were being ushered into a private room of the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall, one of the few places where speaking was permitted in this club of most unclubable gentlemen. There we found not only Mycroft awaiting us, but three other most distinguished visitors. The remains of a hasty luncheon suggested they had been foregathered some time. One of the visitors we recognized instantly and indeed Holmes had undertaken cases for him on former occasions. If anything were needed to convince us of the seriousness of the circumstances that called us here, it was the presence of the elderly Lord Bellinger, once more Premier of Britain. The second was Sir George Lewis, solicitor in delicate matters to the highest in the land. He too was no stranger to Holmes, though my presence brought a swift frown to his face which was only removed by a nod from Lord Bellinger. The third, a keen-eyed tall man of about thirty-five, was introduced to us as Mr Robert Mannering, a name familiar to us as Lord Bellinger’s Adviser on European Affairs. He had inherited the mantle, though not yet the high office, of the late Trelawney Hope, Lord Bellinger’s Secretary for European Affairs at the time of the Adventure of the Second Stain. Holmes’ brother Mycroft sat in the midst of the group, a huge and ungainly spider in the centre of the web of Government diplomacy and intrigue.

“I had not thought we should yet again have need of your services, Mr Holmes,” the Premier began. “Your brother informs us you are exceptionally busy at the moment.”

“That is so.”

“We have to ask you to lay all else aside, save that which we are about to ask you to undertake.”

“That is scarcely feasible, Lord Bellinger.” Holmes was taken aback at this request. “There is the interesting case of the Vanishing Pedlar, and the affair of the Ten Black Pillowcases.”

“Insignificant trifles, Sherlock,” Mycroft rumbled.

From no one but his brother would Sherlock Holmes have accepted this without considerable demur.

“Well, well, that may be debated on a future occasion.”

“Let me explain, Mr Holmes. I act on behalf of a –” Sir George coughed slightly as though he were unwilling even to commit himself so far, “– a noble client of the highest station, who is concerned on behalf of his mother, a – um – lady of venerable years,” Lord Bellinger and Mr Mannering’s eyes were momentarily averted from us, “who is held in highest public esteem and affection and who has no knowledge whatsoever of the events that I am about to relate to you. Nor must she ever have. That is mandatory. His mother – let us call her Lady X – ”

“If you insist,” Holmes agreed in a bored voice.

“Lady X,” Sir George continued hurriedly, “is mistress of an exceptionally large household in London and several country residences. She was widowed early after a most happy marriage, and though blessed with a large and loving family, inevitably as each in turn chose matrimony she came more and more to rely in her private life on a large group of retainers, and one in particular, a loyal and faithful servant who was her personal attendant and confidant to a degree