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It was on a cold and bitter evening in January, 1903, that my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes and I returned from a bracing walk to the rooms at Baker Street. We ascended the staircase in silence, for we were both frozen to the marrow, and a moment later were glad to find ourselves standing in front of a roaring fire in Holmes’s large and untidy room. We stood rubbing our hands before the grate and soon the warm blood was coursing through our veins. Holmes took one of his empty pipes and placed it between his teeth, then flung himself into the basket chair and picked up a large envelope that had been lying open on the table at his elbow. He removed the large, folded sheet of paper from its envelope and, spreading it out on his knee, began to read it quietly to himself with a frown of concentration on his face. As he did so, I could not help studying the envelope, which Holmes had replaced upon the table. It was of a cream colour and uncommonly large, but its most extraordinary feature was the design emblazoned across it. This was like a large and extremely intricate treble clef mark in gold, the body of the mark being made up of fine lines running back and forth along its length.

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, who had been watching me furtively. “What do you make of it?”

“I must say it is a most unusual envelope, Holmes, but I confess that I can infer nothing of interest from it,” I replied.

Holmes rose from his seat and handed me the letter. “It arrived by special courier this morning. You know my methods, Watson. Apply them.”

I took the letter in one hand and the envelope in the other and started my examination. First, I looked closely at the envelope with its singular design. Following my friend’s methods I took up his magnifying lens from the table and examined the design minutely. I then sniffed at the envelope, as I have seen Holmes do on occasion. I then unfolded the letter and read aloud the contents:

Dear Mr Holmes,

I am commanded by my Sovereign to request your advice on a matter of extreme sensitivity. It is impossible for me to enter into the details of the problem in this letter, nor is it advisable for me to identify myself in writing. I will take the liberty of calling at your rooms this evening at 8 o’clock to acquaint you with the case. Your esteemed brother Mycroft is already fully conversant with the relevant facts.

“A case from a royal client!” I cried, “My dear Holmes, I congratulate you.” Holmes waved a deprecating hand. “Pray continue with your examination,” he said.

I sat down and turned the letter over and over in my hands, examining it from every angle. I cudgelled my brains in an attempt to come to some inference about the significance of the letter or the character of the writer, but, try as I may, I could not arrive at any profound conclusion upon the subject. Nevertheless, I was determined to show Holmes that I was not totally devoid of ideas on the matter.

“It would seem clear from the high quality of the paper and the envelope,” I said, with some importance, “and from the fact that he is writing on behalf of his sovereign that your correspondent is a man of high position. I would also say that he is a foreigner, judging by the peculiar symbol on the envelope and by the fact that he refers to ‘my Sovereign’. An Englishman would have written ‘the King’. Also, the use of the word ‘esteemed’ in such a context strikes me as being distinctly un-English. I can find no further clues to the identity of the man.”

Sherlock Holmes sat silently with his elbows on the arms of the chair and his chin resting on his clasped hands, eyeing me closely. At length he spoke.

“Quite right, Watson, quite right. The man is a foreigner of distinction and I will confess that I have not been able to arrive at many much deeper conclusions myself.”

I felt a glow of satisfaction as he rose and crossed to the mantelpiece, where he rested his elbow and turned to face me.

“Indeed, Watson, apart from the obvious facts that the author is an old – I might say, very old – Turkish nobleman, who does not smoke, who has only