I have mentioned before in my chronicles relating some of the most interesting cases solved by my friend, Sherlock Holmes, that some of the most unusual investigations and momentous conclusions could not be narrated due to the extreme delicacy of some and my promise of discretion -- yes, even in some cases, the need for secrecy for the very well-being of the Empire. But since all but six of the persons involved in the episode which I'm about to relate of the world's first and finest consulting detective are dead (and I don't really care what two others think), I can now relate this very curious business.

It was in the spring of 1892, an early April morning. Holmes and I were gazing out the windows of 221B Baker Street at an impenetrable fog that had encumbered the great metropolis. Why we were gazing at the fog is inconsequential, as it cleared quite suddenly to reveal the bustling street below. Although I always regretted it afterwards, I determined to put Holmes's keen mind and deductive powers to the test once again. Seeing a well-dressed gentleman standing on the corner opposite, I turned to my friend and said, "Holmes, what can you tell me about that elderly fellow across the way?"

"Actually quite a lot, Watson. I can tell you that he's a retired colonel in Her Majesty's army, Coldstream Guards, the youngest and most prodigal son of a famous Lord who has large holdings in Kent, the father of three children -- two male, one female -- that he was wounded and decorated for bravery in the Crimea, and that his life is in danger as well as that of his daughter."

"Holmes, this is absolutely preposterous. I know your powers of deduction are keen, but you can't possibly know all that about the man just by looking at him -- even at close quarters, let alone from across the street! This is too extraordinary for words, but of course you're having me for being audacious enough to test you."

"Elementary, my dear Watson, not extraordinary in the least. Perhaps, this will explain." He handed me a letter which read:

"Dunhill Manor, Kent
4 April 1892
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
You must help me, sir. I entreat you. My life and the life of my daughter are in grave danger. Neither of my sons is presently in England to lend any support or protection, and I, feeling the effects of my old wound from the Crimean campaign and the troubles of age, have the pluck but no longer the physical presence that could back up my medals from that conflict. It's that cursed business that started back near Balaklava, and to my eternal shame, I went along with the General's insistence that we never let the truth be known. My father would never have taken me, his youngest son, back into fold and family, let alone inheritance, if he had even an inkling of the truth. I've heard of you everywhere with good report, and I feel sure only you can help me. I shall be in London on the 8th. I will arrive at your address by mid-morning latest.
YHOS,
Reginald Motherspaw
Colonel, Her Majesty's Coldstream Guards, retired"

"Well I'll be dashed!" I was forced to exclaim, as Holmes exhibited as much as I've ever seen him exhibit of mirth.