Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows¹, however, when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any explanations for its absence. Between us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron². To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal and half demon³; but to her he always remained the little wilful⁴ boy of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.