Sherlock Holmes, Watson and Wilson, a client, met at
Holmes´s house. Wilson was a fat, red head that had something to tell. From the
second story of The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes, The Red-Headed
League…
I had called
upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and
found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly
gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to
withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind
me.
“You could not
possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid
that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very
much so.”
“Then I can wait
in the next room.”
“Not at all.
This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most
successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me
in yours also.”
The stout
gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick
little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the
settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips
together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson,
that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and
humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the
enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my
saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have
indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.