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I. Story One: The Red-Headed League
One autumn morning I went to see my friend Sherlock Holmes at his rooms in Baker Street. He was talking to an older gentleman, who was short and fat, with a red face and bright, fiery red hair. I said I was sorry and turned to leave. But Holmes pulled me into the room and closed the door.
“You could not have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said. “Mr Wilson, this is Dr Watson. He has helped me in many of my best cases.”
The fat gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a little nod.
“Mr Jabez Wilson has begun to tell me one of the strangest stories I have heard for a long time,” said Holmes. He sat back in his armchair and put the tips of his fingers together, as he always did when he was thinking hard.