It was early April in 1883. I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing beside my bed, fully dressed. He was usually a late riser, and the clock showed only a quarter past seven. "Very sorry to wake you, Watson," he said. "A young lady has arrived in a great state of excitement, and she insists upon seeing me. When young ladies travel about the city at this hour, and pull sleepy people out of their beds, I expect that something urgent has happened." In the sitting room a woman dressed in black rose to meet us. Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes were restless and frightened, like the eyes of a hunted animal. "You must not be afraid," said Holmes gently, bending forward and patting her arm. "We shall soon put matters right. You came in by train this morning, I see." "You know me, then?" "No, but I see the second half of a return ticket in your left glove. You started early, and you had a long drive in a dog-cart along muddy roads before you reached the station."