“You are not wounded, Holmes?” I asked, as my friend entered the room.
“Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,” he answered, nodding his good-mornings to us. “This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the darkest which I have ever investigated.”
“I feared that you would find it beyond you.”
“It has been a most remarkable experience.”
“That bandage tells of adventures,” said I. “Won’t you tell us what has happened?”
“After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have breathed thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that there has been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we cannot expect to score every time.”
The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she brought in three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes ravenous, I curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.
“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion,” said Holmes, uncovering a dish of curried chicken. “Her cuisine is a little limited, but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What have you here, Watson?”
“Ham and eggs,” I answered.
“Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps—curried fowl or eggs, or will you help yourself?”