Ourchamberswerealwaysfullofchemicalsandofcriminalrelicswhichhadawayofwanderingintounlikelypositions,andofturningupinthebutter-dishorinevenlessdesirableplaces.Buthispapersweremygreatcrux.Hehadahorrorofdestroyingdocuments,especiallythosewhichwereconnectedwithhispastcases,andyetitwasonlyonceineveryyearortwothathewouldmusterenergytodocketandarrangethemfor,asIhavementionedsomewhereintheseincoherentmemoirs,theoutburstsofpassionateenergywhenheperformedtheremarkablefeatswithwhichhisnameisassociatedwerefollowedbyreactionsoflethargyduringwhichhewouldlieaboutwithhisviolinandhisbooks,hardlymovingsavefromthesofatothetable.Thusmonthaftermonthhispapersaccumulated,untileverycorneroftheroomwasstackedwithbundlesofmanuscriptwhichwereonnoaccounttobeburned,andwhichcouldnotbeputawaysavebytheirowner.Onewinter’snight,aswesattogetherbythefire,Iventuredtosuggesttohimthat,ashehadfinishedpastingextractsintohiscommon-placebook,hemightemploythenexttwohoursinmakingourroomalittlemorehabitable.Hecouldnotdenythejusticeofmyrequest,sowitharatherruefulfacehewentofftohisbedroom,fromwhichhereturnedpresentlypullingalargetinboxbehindhim.Thisheplacedinthemiddleofthefloorand,squattingdownuponastoolinfrontofit,hethrewbackthelid.Icouldseethatitwasalreadyathirdfullofbundlesofpapertiedupwithredtapeintoseparatepackages. “Therearecasesenoughhere,Watson,”saidhe,lookingatmewithmischievouseyes.“IthinkthatifyouknewallthatIhadinthisboxyouwouldaskmetopullsomeoutinsteadofputtingothersin.” “Thesearetherecordsofyourearlywork,then?”Iasked.“IhaveoftenwishedthatIhadnotesofthosecases.” “Yes,myboy,thesewerealldoneprematurelybeforemybiographerhadcometoglorifyme.”Heliftedbundleafterbundleinatender,caressingsortofway.“Theyarenotallsuccesses,Watson,”saidhe.“Buttherearesomeprettylittleproblemsamongthem.Here’stherecordoftheTarletonmurders,andthecaseofVamberry,thewinemerchant,andtheadventureoftheoldRussianwoman,andthesingularaffairofthealuminiumcrutch,aswellasafullaccountofRicolettioftheclub-foot,andhisabominablewife.Andhere—ah,now,thisreallyissomethingalittlerecherché.” Hedivedhisarmdowntothebottomofthechest,andbroughtupasmallwoodenboxwithaslidinglid,suchaschildren’stoysarekeptin.Fromwithinheproducedacrumpledpieceofpaper,anold-fashionedbrasskey,apegofwoodwithaballofstringattachedtoit,andthreerustyolddisksofmetal. “Well,myboy,whatdoyoumakeofthislot?”heasked,smilingatmyexpression. “Itisacuriouscollection.” “Verycurious,andthestorythathangsrounditwillstrikeyouasbeingmorecuriousstill.” “Theserelicshaveahistorythen?” “Somuchsothattheyarehistory.”