The Masked Visitor

Holmes stood by the fire, his sharp eyes bright with welcome. "Watson," he said at once, before his friend had spoken a single word, "I see that married life agrees with you. And I see, too, that you have gone back to your work as a doctor. You have grown stouter, and you smell faintly of medicine." Watson laughed, amazed as always by his friend's quick and careful eye for small clues that other people never noticed.

They had barely settled by the fire when a carriage stopped outside, its wheels loud on the quiet street. A heavy step climbed the stairs, and a tall stranger entered, his face hidden behind a black mask. His clothes were rich and his manner was proud, though something about his voice trembled with worry. "You must forgive the mask," the stranger said. "My business is a secret one, and I cannot let my true identity be known."

"Then let me guess it for you," said Holmes calmly. "You are no ordinary visitor. Your rich clothes, your royal manner, and the crown pressed into your letter paper tell me you are a king." The stranger's face went pale with shock, and slowly he pulled off his mask. "You are right," he admitted. "I am the King of Bohemia. I did not wish anyone to know I had come to London."

The King explained his trouble in a low, unhappy voice. Years ago, when he was young, he had loved a clever and beautiful opera singer named Irene Adler. Now he was engaged to marry a Scandinavian princess, a marriage that would bring peace and honor to his kingdom. But Irene Adler still possessed a photograph, one that showed the King and herself together, taken in a private and foolish moment.

"If the princess's family were to see that photograph," the King said, "the engagement would be broken, and my kingdom would suffer a terrible scandal. Miss Adler has sworn to send it to them within the week, unless I agree to marry her instead. I have sent five men to search her house. I have even paid thieves to steal her bags when she traveled. Nothing has worked. She is far too clever."

Holmes listened without a word, his fingers pressed together, his eyes half closed in deep thought. "A dangerous woman indeed," he said at last. "But every clever plan has a weak point, and every hidden thing has a place where it is hidden. Give me her address, and a large fee for my trouble, and I promise you an answer before tomorrow evening."

The King wrote down an address, Briony Lodge, in the district of St. John's Wood, and placed a heavy bag of gold upon the table. "Bring me back that photograph," he said, "and you may name your own reward." When the King had gone, Holmes turned to Watson with a bright, eager smile. "Come and see me tomorrow afternoon, my friend," he said. "I have a small case to solve, and I think it may prove rather interesting."