But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroyingdocuments， especially those which were connected with hispast cases， and yet it was only once in every year or two that hewould muster energy to docket and arrange them； for， as I havementioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs， the outburstsof passionate energy when he performed the remarkable featswith which his name is associated were followed by reactions oflethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and hisbooks， hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus monthafter month his papers accumulated， until every corner of theroom was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on noaccount to be burned， and which could not be put away save bytheir owner. One winter’s night， as we sat together by the fire， Iventured to suggest to him that， as he had finished pasting extractsinto his common-place book， he might employ the next two hoursin making our room a little more habitable. He could not denythe justice of my request， so with a rather rueful face he went offto his bedroom， from which he returned presently pulling a largetin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and，squatting down upon a stool in front of it， he threw back the lid.
I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tiedup with red tape into separate packages.
“There are cases enough here， Watson，” said he， looking at mewith mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I hadin this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of puttingothers in.”
“These are the records of your early work， then？” I asked. “Ihave often wished that I had notes of those cases.”
“Yes， my boy， these were all done prematurely before mybiographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundlein a tender， caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes，Watson，” said he. “But there are some pretty little problemsamong them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders， andthe case of Vamberry， the wine merchant， and the adventure ofthe old Russian woman， and the singular affair of the aluminiumcrutch， as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot， andhis abominable wife. And here—ah， now， this really is something alittle recherché.”
He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest， and broughtup a small wooden box with a sliding lid such as children’s toysare kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper，and old-fashioned brass key， a peg of wood with a ball of stringattached to it， and three rusty old disks of metal.
“Well， my boy， what do you make of this lot？” he asked， smilingat my expression.
“It is a curious collection.”
“Very curious， and the story that hangs round it will strike youas being more curious still.”
“These relics have a history then？”
“So much so that they are history.”
“What do you mean by that？”
Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one， and laid themalong the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chairand looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
“These，” said he， “are all that I have left to remind me of theadventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”
I had heard him mention the case more than once， though I hadnever been able to gather the details. “I should be so glad，” said I， “ifyou would give me an account of it.”
“And leave the litter as it is？” he cried， mischievously. “Yourtidiness won’t bear much strain， after all， Watson. But I shouldbe glad that you should add this case to your annals， for there arepoints in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records ofthis or， I believe， of any other country. A collection of my triflingachievements would certainly be incomplete which contained noaccount of this very singular business.
“You may remember how the affair of the Gloria Scott， andmy conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of，first turned my attention in the direction of the profession whichhas become my life’s work. You see me now when my name hasbecome known far and wide， and when I am generally recognizedboth by the public and by the official force as being a final court ofappeal in doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first， at the timeof the affair which you have commemorated in ‘A Study in Scarlet，’
I had already established a considerable， though not a verylucrative， connection. You can hardly realize， then， how difficult Ifound it at first， and how long I had to wait before I succeeded inmaking any headway.
“When I first came up to London I had rooms in MontagueStreet， just round the corner from the British Museum， and thereI waited， filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying allthose branches of science which might make me more efficient.
Now and again cases came in my way， principally through theintroduction of old fellow-students， for during my last years at theUniversity there was a good deal of talk there about myself andmy methods. The third of these cases was that of the MusgraveRitual， and it is to the interest which was aroused by that singularchain of events， and the large issues which proved to be at stake，that I trace my first stride towards the position which I now hold.
