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“I think we may receive a note from the Abernettys offering apologies for Sunday afternoon,” was his only reply.

Holmes was not often confounded, but the next event produced that effect.

We were sitting beside the fire after supper that evening when we heard a light quick step on the stairs followed by a sharp rap on the outer door.

“Who could that be?” I asked, surprised.

“I suggest you open the door, Watson,” replied Holmes in that slightly caustic tone he could adopt at times.

A woman stood in the doorway, shrouded in a long woollen cloak with a hood. Pushing past me, she advanced into the room, throwing back her hood to reveal the face of Sabina Abernetty.

Holmes rose from his chair and faced her. For the space of a minute they examined each other.

“So I’ve tracked you down, Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective,” she said, bitterly.

“I congratulate you.” Holmes’s voice was slightly uneven.

“Why have you donned disguise to make my brother’s acquaintance? Why have you flattered and deceived him, and come to our home? I know the answer? You have been employed by that hateful woman, Mabel Bertram to pry into our affairs. What has she been telling you?”

“She’s concerned for your mother’s health, nothing more.”

“Oh, there is a great deal more, Mr Holmes.”

She checked her passionate outburst and fell silent. I took the opportunity to express a concern of my own.

“I trust you did not come alone through the night, Miss Abernetty.”

“Minter is waiting in a hansom downstairs,” she replied, curtly.

“Where is your brother?”

“At a meeting of his dramatic society.” She turned fiercely on Holmes. “What will satisfy you? What will end this persecution?”

I was shocked at the violence of her words, but Holmes answered her promptly.

“Seeing Lady Abernetty is alive and in reasonable health.”

“Very well. You shall meet her on Sunday afternoon.” She crossed to the door, but turned on the threshold, her lip curling. “I despise you.”

She drew up her hood and hurried down the stairs.

“There is a lady who does not bestow her contempt lightly.” Holmes tried to laugh, but the tremor was still in his voice.

“A remarkable adversary,” I observed.

“She is not my adversary,” said Holmes, softly. “She is my enemy. Or rather I am hers.” He crossed to the window. “Ah, there they go. Be a good fellow, Watson, and whistle me up a cab while I throw on my cap and Ulster. I have to go out for a short time.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No, it’s better that I go alone.” Holmes looked shaken by the incident, but at the same time some grim determination had seized him and I knew better than to persist.

The following day he was restless and moody and spent hours scraping on his old violin until I felt compelled to protest.

“How does an evening at the theatre appeal to you?” Holmes became suddenly brisk. “Dan Leno’s playing at Drury Lane. We’ll dine out first.”

I was surprised at his choice of entertainment since he usually preferred a violin recital at the Albert Hall.

As usual he read my thoughts. “Come, Watson, the most celebrated clog-dancer and dame of our time. The man’s an artist, probably in his own field a genius.”

Dan Leno was certainly in fine form that evening, performing acts of incredible physical ingenuity, and changing from persona to persona with an inimitable blend of Cockney humour and sentiment and a variety of wigs and gowns.

While the patrons about us rocked in their seats with laughter, Holmes sat silent, his fingers steepled across the front of his evening clothes, watching the performance under slumbrous lids. I had the impression, however, he was watching the little man’s antics intently.

The following day, to my surprise, he dressed for his appointment with the Abernettys without his usual disguise.

“The game’s up, Watson,” he answered my look. “I think both parties are now aware of my identity and interest.”

“Do you think we’ll be introduced to the mother?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

A pall of fog lay over London. The church bells sounded muffled and melancholy. It showed no signs of dissipating