At the time of this story, I was still living at my friend
Sherlock Holmes's flat in Baker Street in London. Very
early one morning, a young woman, dressed in black,
came to see us. She looked tired and unhappy, and her
face was very white. 'I'm afraid! Afraid of death,
Mr Holmes!' she cried. 'Please help me! I'm not thirty
yet and look at my grey hair! I'm so afraid!'