The adventure of the blue car-buncle, part one.

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with

the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season.

He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-brack within his reach

upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning-papers evidently newly studied near at hand.

Besides the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy

and disreputable, hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places.

A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been

suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.

You are engaged, said I, perhaps I interrupt you.

Not at all, I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results.

The matter is a perfectly trivial one.

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat.

But there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest

and even of instruction.

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire.

For a sharp frost had said in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals.

I suppose, I remarked, that only as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked

on to it, that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the

punishment of some crime.

No, no, no crime, said Sherlock Holmes laughing.

Only one of those whimsical little incidents, which will happen when you have four million

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