The dense fog which so frequently shrouds and dampens the streets of London was particularly intense that morning as Holmes, with his violin, and I with my pipe, sat in our quarters at 221B Baker Street.
"W1," mumbled Holmes, pausing from his incessant repetitions of a Paganini caprice.
"I beg your pardon, my dear fellow?" I asked my companion. "Double me one what?"
"Watson, you hear but you do not listen! I was referring to our postal district, which you know full well must follow any citation of a London address."
"Well of course, most certainly," I agreed, always the best policy when confronted by his didacticism. "But good God, Holmes! How on earth did you know... ?"
"Elementary, my dear Watson. You were speaking out loud. I quote: 'The dense fog which so frequently shrouds... ' But no mind. We must prepare ourselves for our visitor. In a moment there will be a knock at the door, signaling the arrival of an individual in height five feet five inches, a weight of 20 stone, with grizzled mane, pendulous jowls, displaying a propensity for tiresome pettifoggery and querulousness, incessantly cantankerous, peevish and in all regards generally ill-tempered."
"By Jove," I chortled. "You'll have to do better than that, old fellow! You know as well as I that this is precisely the time Mrs. Hudson brings us our morning tea!" Upon the knock, I opened the door, whereupon the individual, who in every particular met Holmes's description, spoke.
"Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Evil Editor."