One day in March, as I walked along Baker Street, I saw a light in Holmes's window, and knew that he had returned. I went in, and he welcomed me like the dear old friend he had been. All evening we sat by the fire, and he told me everything that had happened in Russia and Ceylon. But what I really wanted to hear about was Moriarty's death, and about that he said not one word.
At last I could wait no longer.