The Dancing Men

Author Conan Doyle

Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long, thin back curved over a chemical vessel1 in which he was brewing2 a particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank3 bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top-knot.

"So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to invest in South African securities?"

I gave a start of astonishment4. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's curious faculties5, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was utterly6 inexplicable7.