I fear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes may become like one of thosepopular tenors who， having outlived their time， are still temptedto make repeated farewell bows to their indulgent audiences.
This must cease and he must go the way of all flesh， material orimaginary. One likes to think that there is some fantastic limbofor the children of imagination， some strange， impossible placewhere the beaux of Fielding may still make love to the bellesof Richardson， where Scott’s heroes still may strut， Dickens’sdelightful Cockneys still raise a laugh， and Thackeray’sworldlings continue to carry on their reprehensible careers.
Perhaps in some humble corner of such a Valhalla， Sherlock andhis Watson may for a time find a place， while some more astutesleuth with some even less astute comrade may fill the stagewhich they have vacated.
His career has been a long one—though it is possible toexaggerate it； decrepit gentlemen who approach me and declarethat his adventures formed the reading of their boyhood do notmeet the response from me which they seem to expect. One is notanxious to have one’s personal dates handled so unkindly. As amatter of cold fact， Holmes made his début in A Study in Scarletand in The Sign of Four， two small booklets which appearedbetween 1887 and 1889. It was in 1891 that “A Scandal inBohemia，” the first of the long series of short stories， appearedin The Strand Magazine. The public seemed appreciative anddesirous of more， so that from that date， thirty-nine years ago，they have been produced in a broken series which now containsno fewer than fifty-six stories， republished in The Adventures，The Memoirs， The Return， and His Last Bow， and there remainthese twelve published during the last few years which are hereproduced under the title of The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. Hebegan his adventures in the very heart of the later Victorian era，carried it through the all-too-short reign of Edward， and hasmanaged to hold his own little niche even in these feverish days.
Thus it would be true to say that those who first read of him，as young men， have lived to see their own grown-up childrenfollowing the same adventures in the same magazine. It is astriking example of the patience and loyalty of the British public.
I had fully determined at the conclusion of The Memoirs tobring Holmes to an end， as I felt that my literary energies shouldnot be directed too much into one channel. That pale， clear-cutface and loose-limbed figure were taking up an undue share ofmy imagination. I did the deed， but fortunately no coroner hadpronounced upon the remains， and so， after a long interval，it was not difficult for me to respond to the flattering demandand to explain my rash act away. I have never regretted it， for Ihave not in actual practice found that these lighter sketches haveprevented me from exploring and finding my limitations in suchvaried branches of literature as history， poetry， historical novels，psychic research， and the drama. Had Holmes never existed I couldnot have done more， though he may perhaps have stood a little inthe way of the recognition of my more serious literary work.
And so， reader， farewell to Sherlock Holmes！ I thank you foryour past constancy， and can but hope that some return has beenmade in the shape of that distraction from the worries of life andstimulating change of thought which can only be found in thefairy kingdom of romance.
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
The Adventure of the Illustrious Client
“It can’t hurt now，” was Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s comment when，for the tenth time in as many years， I asked his leave to reveal thefollowing narrative. So it was that at last I obtained permission toput on record what was， in some ways， the supreme moment of myfriend’s career.
Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish bath. It wasover a smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that Ihave found him less reticent and more human than anywhere else.
On the upper floor of the Northumberland Avenue establishmentthere is an isolated corner where two couches lie side by side，and it was on these that we lay upon September 3， 1902， the daywhen my narrative begins. I had asked him whether anything wasstirring， and for answer he had shot his long， thin， nervous armout of the sheets which enveloped him and had drawn an envelopefrom the inside pocket of the coat which hung beside him.
“It may be some fussy， self-important fool； it may be a matter oflife or death，” said he as he handed me the note. “I know no morethan this message tells me.”
It was from the Carlton Club and dated the evening before.
This is what I read：
Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. SherlockHolmes and will call upon him at 4：30 to-morrow. Sir James begs tosay that the matter upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes isvery delicate and also very important. He trusts， therefore， that Mr.
Holmes will make every effort to grant this interview， and that hewill confirm it over the telephone to the Carlton Club.
“I need not say that I have confirmed it， Watson，” said Holmesas I returned the paper. “Do you know anything of this manDamery？”
“Only that this name is a household word in society.”
“Well， I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather areputation for arranging delicate matters which are to be kept outof the papers. You may remember his negotiations with Sir GeorgeLewis over the Hammerford Will case. He is a man of the worldwith a natural turn for diplomacy. I am bound， therefore， to hopethat it is not a false scent and that he has some real need for ourassistance.”
“Our？”
“Well， if you will be so good， Watson.”
“I shall be honoured.”
“Then you have the hour—4：30. Until then we can put thematter out of our heads.”
