"Holmes!" I began. "What brings you out at this - " I broke off in astonishment at the sight of his companion. It was the lady from the Embankment. She was dressed in a well-fitting but very plain raincoat that swept to her ankles, but of the feet beneath it one wore a slipper and the other was bare. Her damp uncombed hair hung loosely about her white, set face, and her eyes were dark and dilated, producing altogether a wild, disheveled effect. She held one arm with the other in an unnatural manner. The sleeve of her coat was stained with blood.

"Holmes, what has happened?" I inquired anxiously as I shut the door behind the bohemian pair, for it seemed to me that Holmes himself did not present quite so prim an appearance as he had that morning.

"It's attempted murder at the very least, Watson," he said quietly, the tone of his voice wholly at variance with the electrifying message it contained. "Sorry to knock you up at this hour, but I need you in your professional capacity. Is Mrs. Watson abed? Just as well. No need to disturb her yet."

I kept my voice down. "Come into the surgery." I led the way and turned up the gas.

"It's going to take some stitchery," said Holmes, helping the lady off with her coat and seating her at the table. Beneath the coat the lady was dressed in a simple skirt and blouse. In the light I could see that she was trembling and pale. "She has a stab wound in the arm. Hardly in danger of being fatal, but it has bled like the very devil."

The blood-soaked towel wrapped about the arm in question told me he did not exaggerate. I gathered my equipment and a basin, and unwrapped the towel and a soaked handkerchief tied tightly beneath it, to disclose a long, straight cut; the length of the lady's forearm, a mere scratch near the wrist but deep near the elbow. "How in God's name did this happen?" I asked.