Your Life Is Not Your Own. Keep

You Mentioned Your Name As If I Should Recognize It, But Beyond The Obvious Facts That You Are A Bachelor, A Solicitor, A Freemason, And An Asthmatic, I Know Nothing Whatever About You.

A Man Should Keep His Little Brain Attic Stocked With All The Furniture That He Is Likely To Use, And The Rest He Can Put Away In The Lumber-room Of His Library, Where He Can Get It If He Wants It.

...it Was A Huge Creature, Luminous, Ghastly, And Spectral. I Have Cross-examined These Men, One Of Them A Hard-headed Countryman, One A Farrier, And One A Moorland Farmer, Who All Tell The Same Story Of This Dreadful Apparition, Exactly Corresponding To The Hell-hound Of The Legend. I Assure You That There Is A Reign Of Terror In The District, And That It Is A Hardy Man Who Will Cross The Moor At Night.

My Mind Rebels At Stagnation. Give Me Problems, Give Me Work, Give Me The Most Abstruse Cryptogram, Or The Most Intricate Analysis, And I Am In My Own Proper Atmosphere. But I Abhor The Dull Routine Of Existence. I Crave For Mental Exaltation.

When You Have Eliminated The Impossible, What Is Left, No Matter How Unlikely, Is The Truth.