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One Friday afternoon, late in the month of August, faced with some unexpected delay in the completion of a prosthetic limb I had ordered for a patient, I resolved to visit my friend, Sherlock Holmes, at his Baker Street rooms, while the workman put the finishing touches to the device.
I had no intimation that this casual social call would result in my being able to witness a remarkable instance of the way in which the tiniest of facts, strung together by impeccable logic, can lead to quite far reaching conclusions
Had I not been present, I make no doubt this investigation would have sunk unremarked into the anonymity of the inconsequential, as Holmes himself never spoke of it again, and I suspect the police were quite content that his part in the affair remain obscured in the general excitement that surrounded the trial and conviction of a certain businessman.