My pipe softly smoked as I first heard the carriage draw near. The wheels creaked and the horses trotted down the cobblestone street. The moon slid behind the clouds and I turned on my small reading light that rested on the side table and picked up the newspaper. Nothing would shake me at all. Not the moon disappearing right as the carriage pulled up. Not the pound of the cane on the ground as it jumped up the steps to my front door. Not the harsh and foul words the man uttered under his breath as he hobbled up my steps.

There was no knock at the door for a moment, as if the man was waiting for someone to open the door by command of his arriving at the door. Eventually, he rasped his hands against the wooden door. The knocks echoed throughout the dark house. I only settled deeper into my chair and inhaled a bit of smoke, then let it out so it curled around my lips.

The man knocked again.

Reluctantly, I got up and set my pipe on the side table and put down the newspaper on the chair. The brass handles on the wooden door glinted at me with evil eyes, but I covered them up with my hands and gave them a hard twist. The door opened and a man all in black stood on the door step. His cane was the first thing to set foot in my house. I backed away to make room for this new-comer.

His cane was gracefully polished so that the softest strand of light would reflect off the shining metal and reflect it onto any surface. His hat stood tall on his head and was, as well, taken care of neatly. His shoes were shined to perfection and his cloak had not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. He seemed like a shining gold coin among many rusty, copper pennies inside a damp treasure box which, too, was rusting.

I gestured into the parlor where I had been sitting before and grunted as I did so. He sat in the opposite chair that of which the newspaper was lying in knowing that I should want to sit in it again. Once I sat down, he removed his hat with care and brushed it to remove any dust from it. At once I knew this was a man I had not dealt with before but who knew much about me, so much that I dared not even spill a drop of doubt about my own life or else he would correct me and restate the whole story, or my whole life, and I would be out like a candle.

"Mr. Holmes," he said and looked directly at me. I turned away from his sharp stare to pick up my pipe and relight it. "I understand that you are a detective, are you not?"

I grunted slightly and blew out a puff of smoke from my mouth. It gracefully curled up to the ceiling.

"Yes, detective and private eye. Both, really. They mix in my jobs."

"Of course. I need you to help me." He sat back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left and brushed off his coat.

"Why else would you have come?" I asked and blew another puff of air and smoke.

"I not only need you to help me, but I need you to help my daughter." This caught my attention. A father trying to look after a daughter. I had to intrude on this.

"Does your daughter accept my help?" The man massaged his hands and lowered his eyes a bit.

"Yes, indeed she does." His right hand stretched outward for his cane that lay right beside him and his fingers caressed the gold handle.

"What is it you need help with?" I leaned forward and took the pipe out of my mouth.

"I need you to look over my daughter. She is in grave danger. Her aquatints have been few but were only by rich men who seek her through help. I am worried that she has met the wrong people to help." I dared not to say it at the moment, but the time was drawing short. The man looked down at the handle of his cane again and rubbed his fingers over it.

"And you being one of them."

"What?"

"You, being one of them."

"I heard what you said, Holmes. And I daresay that you are mistaken."

"Mistaken, me? I am Sherlock Holmes! Do you know exactly who you are dealing with?" I sat back in my chair ready for the blow.

"I do, and that's why I came to seek you out."

"In the middle of the night?"

"I had to get away so my daughter wouldn't notice. She would in the middle of the day. She is always at my side aiding me in my work. Being Ambassador is such hard work sometimes," the man explained.

"Yet, you can't pay to have the wheels of your carriage oiled," I asked. Truly, this man knew not of who I was.

"Well, you see, I," the man stuttered.

"And your blistered hands; is that from all the writing you have to do?" I asked with a bit of sarcasm in my voice.

"Yes, hard work, writing."

"You don't have enough money to hire an assistant?" I moved to the end of my seat and leaned towards them man. His hand clasped around the cane handle.

"No, you see, I."

"You have been doing quite well the looks, my dear sir. But not so well with the other details. Your right knee is injured, is it not?"

"Yes." He quickly unfolded his legs. "How did you know?"

"The limp. It was believable. But, you crossed your legs with much ease. I'd say, no man with a limp that badly could cross his legs at all as not to shoot sharp pains up his leg." I stood up and faced the window.

"Of course, I..." he stuttered. I heard him get up and scrape the cane on the floor and heard a slight click.

"I must be leaving now," the man said and turned to the front door.

"Of course," I said courteously as if I had never discovered who he actually was. As I turned the handle of the door for him, he lifted the handle of his can and shot at me, but, knowing it was coming, I ducked and quickly grabbed him into a headlock.

"The Ambassador. Of course! I laugh at your little joke." The man could hardly breathe now. "Should I let you go or turn you into the police?"

"G....G....o!" the man tried to say.

"Let you go? Of course." I let him out of the headlock and he dropped to the floor then scrambled up and hurried out the door. No sooner had he hopped onto the carriage then did it drive away down the road. I turned to close the door when a glint caught my eye. The bullet had shot through the door and landed out in the street. I swiftly walked out of the house and picked it up, then walked back in thinking it would make a good piece of evidence for the police. But, a scrawled letter on it caught my eye. On the blunt end of the bullet was an H with a W over lapping it. Knowing what this meant, I carefully pulled off the shell of the bullet. A small piece of paper dropped out of it.

I unfolded it, looked at the handwriting, and immediately realized who it was from. Watson. My dear friend Dr. Watson.

Now, what was he doing meddling with the affairs of the drunken actor who had just visited my house?