"Yes, indeed."

　　Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon theback of an envelope.

　　"Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twentyyears younger than himself- a good-looking woman, too, if thephotograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure- itseemed a straight road which lay before him. And yet within twoyears he is, as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature ascrawls beneath the sun."

　　"But what has happened?"

　　"The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. Itwould appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess. Notfar from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also achess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest. Ernest wasfrequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberleywas a natural sequence, for you must admit that our unfortunate clienthas few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues may be. Thecouple went off together last week- destination untraced. What ismore, the faithless spouse carried off the old man's deed-box as herpersonal luggage with a good part of his life's savings within. Can wefind the lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace problem so faras it has developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah Amberley.""What will you do about it?"

　　"Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, whatwill you do?- if you will be good enough to understudy me. You knowthat I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs,which should come to a head to-day. I really have not time to go outto Lewisham, and yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value.The old fellow was quite insistent that I should go, but I explainedmy difficulty. He is prepared to meet a representative.""By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can beof much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it was thaton a summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming thatwithin a week the affair in which I was engaging would be the eagerdebate of all England.

　　It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street andgave an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figurestretched in his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths ofacrid tobacco, while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazilythat he might almost have been asleep were it not that at any haltor questionable passage of my narrative they half lifted, and two grayeyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with theirsearching glance.

　　"The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I explained."I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penuriouspatrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You knowthat particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the wearysuburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island ofancient culture and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by ahigh sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, thesort of wall-"