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Spring in 1919 arrived raw, windy, and wet; nature seemed too exhausted by four years of war to put forth her best efforts. That changed in early May: Londoners awoke to find crab-apple trees in bloom, their white and pink blossoms innocent explosions; gigantic elms, their trunks parting like fingers, seemed to reach to the sky; crowds of tulips welcomed those seeking repose in Hyde Park. I went there often, my waning medical practice affording me more leisure. As I walked I mused on how different, and busier, the city seemed than when Sherlock Holmes and I had rooms on