When I read what I had written, I began to wonder
how well I knew Holmes. Did he really fight against
crime? He took cases because they interested him,
not because he hated crime. It was all just a game
to him. He fought crime to amuse himself. It was now
late at night. I was terribly tired, but I knew that I had
to decide what to do before Holmes came back.
Suddenly, as I lay back in my chair, half-asleep, the
terrible picture of Holmes cutting up that girl's body
appeared again before my eyes. Then, finally, I
knew. It was not what I had seen him do, but how he
had done it. That look of cool amusement on his
face. The way he sang as he worked. The man who
could do that could do anything.