We were sitting in the old-fashioned office, then, one snowy night in January, the Doctor leaning back in his chair, his meerschaum pipe in his mouth—the one with the gold cap that a long-ago patient gave him—when he straightened his back and tugged at his fob, bringing to the surface a small gold watch—one I had not seen before.
"Where's the silver one?" I asked, referring to an old silver-backed watch I had seen him wear.
The Doctor looked up and smiled.
"That's in the drawer. I don't wear it any more—not since I got this one back."
"What happened? Was it broken?"
"No, stolen."
"When?"
"Oh, some time ago. Help yourself to a cigar and I'll tell you about it.
"One night last summer I came in late, took off my coat and vest, hung them on a chair by the window and went to bed, leaving the sashes ajar, for it was terribly hot and I wanted a draught of air through from my bedroom."
(I must tell my reader here that the Doctor is a born story-teller and something of an actor as well. He seldom explains his characters or situations as he goes on by putting in "I said" and "he said" and similar expressions. You know by the tones of his voice who is speaking, and his gestures supply the rest.)