IN THE YEAR 1878 I took my degree of.
Yet, silent as.
There was but one problem before the public which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular disappearance of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer.
Sufficient for to-morrow is the evil thereof; but I hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last.
Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.
Buda-Pesth. It told how two Englishmen who had been.
It is an old manuscript.” “Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.” “How can you say that, sir?” “You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so.
The love-affair of Enid Challenger and Edward Malone is not of the slightest interest to the reader, for the simple reason that it is not of the slightest interest to the writer.
The opinion of a clever man who has had no experience is really of less value than that of the man in the street who has actually been there.
Like most clever criminals, he may be too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has completely deceived us.
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England.
If they cannot deny it, they will probably ignore it.
You must admit that the whole conduct of the proceedings was intolerable, and that my righteous protest was more than justified. It is possible that when I threw the chairman’s table at the President of the Psychic College I passed the bounds of decorum, but the provocation had been excessive.
Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his.
No sound in history has ever equalled the cry of the injured Earth.
It is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement.” “You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger; “this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken.
Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked. “‘L’homme c’est rien – l’oeuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges Sand.
How often?” “Well, some hundreds of times.” “Then how many are there?” “How many? I don’t know.” “Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed.
It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine.
There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered, laughing.
The question now was, who was the man, and who was it brought him the coronet? “It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.