minnbanya/nlp-a2-sherlock · Datasets at Hugging Face

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I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.

“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not
be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and
stiff.”

“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English
paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”

I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G”
with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.

“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.

“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”

“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’
which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like
our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us
glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume
from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a
German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable
as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous
glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of
that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud
from his cigarette.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.

“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the
peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from
all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written
that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only
remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who
writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his
face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our
doubts.”

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating
wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
whistled.

“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of
the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred
and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there
is nothing else.”

“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”

“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”

“But your client—”

“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the
passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and
authoritative tap.

“Come in!” said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches
in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich
with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad
taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and
fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was
thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and
secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming
beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were
trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of
barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He
carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard
mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand
was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face
he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip,
and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length
of obstinacy.

“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from
one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr.
Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom
have I the honour to address?”

“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
alone.”

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into
my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was

written.

“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,

endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not

be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and

stiff.”

“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English

paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”

I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G”

with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.

“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.

“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”

“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’

which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like

our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us

glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume

from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a

German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable

as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous

glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of

that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud

from his cigarette.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.

“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the

peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from

all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written

that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only

remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who

writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his

face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our

doubts.”

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating

wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes

whistled.

“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of

the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred

and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there

is nothing else.”

“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”

“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.

And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”

“But your client—”

“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.

Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the

passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and

authoritative tap.

“Come in!” said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches

in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich

with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad

taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and

fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was

thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and

secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming

beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were

trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of

barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He

carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper

part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard

mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand

was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face

he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip,

and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length

of obstinacy.

“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly

marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from

one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr.

Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom

have I the honour to address?”

“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I

understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and

discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme

importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you

alone.”

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into

my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this