No Violence, Gentlemen — No Violence, I

No Man Burdens His Mind With Small Matters Unless He Has Some Very Good Reason For Doing So.

A Hound It Was, An Enormous Coal-black Hound, But Not Such A Hound As Mortal Eyes Have Ever Seen. Fire Burst From Its Open Mouth, Its Eyes Glowed With A Smouldering Glare, Its Muzzle And Hackles And Dewlap Were Outlined In Flickering Flame. Never In The Delirious Dream Of A Disordered Brain Could Anything More Savage, More Appalling, More Hellish Be Conceived Than That Dark Form And Savage Face Which Broke Upon Us Out Of The Wall Of Fog.

Desultory Readers Are Seldom Remarkable For The Exactness Of Their Learning.

I Know, My Dear Watson, That You Share My Love Of All That Is Bizarre And Outside The Conventions And Humdrum Routine Of Daily Life.

There Are No Crimes And No Criminals In These Days. What Is The Use Of Having Brains In Our Profession? I Know Well That I Have It In Me To Make My Name Famous. No Man Lives Or Has Ever Lived Who Has Brought The Same Amount Of Study And Of Natural Talent To The Detection Of Crime Which I Have Done. And What Is The Result? There Is No Crime To Detect, Or, At Most, Some Bungling Villainy With A Motive So Transparent That Even A Scotland Yard Official Can See Through It.