To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she outshines all other women. It was not that he felt any emotion like love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were offensive to his cold, precise mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have thought himself weaker. He never spoke of the softer passions, except to make fun of them. They were beneficial things for the observer—excellent for understanding men’s motives and actions. But if he were in love, he would doubt all of his own logic. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage hadn’t given him and I much time together. My happy love life filled my days, while Holmes remained in our former home in Baker Street among his old books. Still when I passed by his door on March 20th of 1888, I had to stop in. I rang the bell and was shown up to the room which I had once lived in. Sherlock's manner was not overly friendly. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word, he waved me to an armchair and gave me his case of cigars. It was like old times. Then he threw over a sheet of thick, pink notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came in the mail yesterday,” he said. “Read it aloud.” The note was undated, and without either signature or address. “Tonight at a quarter to eight, someone will knock on your door” it said, “a gentleman who desires to speak with you about a very important matter. You demonstrated your skills recently in services to one of the royal houses of Europe and so this gentleman seeks your advice. Be in your home at that time, and do not worry if your visitor wears a mask.” “This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine it means?” “I have no data yet. It is a mistake to theorize before one has data. Undoubtedly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. What do you deduce from the note?” I carefully examined the writing and the notepaper. “The man who wrote it was presumably wealthy,” I remarked, trying to think like Sherlock. “Such paper must be expensive. It is especially strong and stiff.” “Special—that is the word,” said Holmes. “It is not English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.” I did so, and saw a number of letters woven into the texture of the paper. “What do you think of that?” asked Holmes. “The name of the maker, no doubt.” “Perhaps. It appears to be German. ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Paper.’ I’ll need to look up ‘Eg.’” He took down a heavy brown book from his shelves. “Here we are, Egria. It’s often abbreviated to ‘Eg.’ It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Famous for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great cloud from his cigarette. “The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said. “Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is German. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to explain.” As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses and wheels against the street, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. “A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, looking out the window. “Very, very nice horses. Worth a few hundred each. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.” “I think that I had better go, Holmes.” “Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. This promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.” “But your client—” “Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.” A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the hallway, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and strong knock. “Come in!” said Holmes. A man entered who stood no less than six feet six inches in height. His clothes were rich with a richness which would, in England, normally be thought to be in bad taste. He carried a large hat in his hand, and he wore a black mask across the upper part of his face. From the lower part of the face, he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick lip, and a long, straight chin. “You received my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a thick German accent. “I told you that I would stop by.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to talk to. “Take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who occasionally helps me with my cases. Whom do I have the honor to speak to?” “You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.” I got up to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” he said. “Anything you can say to me, you can say to him.” The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” he said, “by making you promise to keep this secret for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. But currently, it is of such importance that it could influence European history.” “I promise,” said Holmes. “And I.” “You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “My employer wishes me to remain unknown, and I must confess at once that the name I just gave is not exactly my own.” “I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly. “The circumstances are delicate since one of the leading families of Europe has been touched by scandal. To speak plainly, the matter involves the great House of Ormstein, Kings of Bohemia.” “I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some surprise at Holmes. He thought he was meeting a more energetic detective. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at this man.