But Peters kept his nerve jolly well, and, in fact, was more like Sherlock Holmes at that terrible moment than ever I saw him before or after.
"I'm glad it's turned up," said Peters, "and I hope the Doctor's will."
Then he and I went off, and I congratulated him.
"You've got a nerve of iron," I said.
"Yes," he said, "and I shall want it."
Then he told me there was nothing like this in Sherlock Holmes, and that the whole piece of detective work was a failure, and rather a painful failure to him.
"I don't mind the licking, and so on," he said, "but it's the inner disgrace."
"It was a very natural mistake," I said, to cheer him up.
"Yes," he said; "but detectives of the first class don't make natural mistakes—nor any other sort either. It's the disappointment of coming such a howler over a simple felony that is so hard. At least, of course, it's not a felony at all."
"If it is, you did it," I said; "and now of course you'll chuck away the pencil-sharpener and sit tight about it?"