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.