It was the second Saturday of April 1894 when a small matter from a respectable Bayswater address brought us out before noon - Mrs Anstey, of Bayswater Terrace, lately widowed by the wreck of the *Glamorgan* off the Cape, now besieged by a man who claimed to be her husband.
"He arrived on Tuesday evening, Mr Holmes, with a beard, much weathered, the right look of my Edward. He knew the drawer in the morning-room; he knew Mary's nickname for the cat. My brother-in-law and our solicitor swear it is not him. The will is to be read on Monday. They are to swear before a magistrate that he is an impostor. Sir, I cannot say."
We walked across to Bayswater Terrace through a sharp spring afternoon. As we turned out of Bayswater Terrace I observed a thickset man in iron-grey at the corner, who watched our hansom turn - broken-nosed, knuckles scarred, very still beneath a low hat - and was gone before we reached the next gate.
Mrs Anstey met us at her own door. The man at her hearth - a weathered, courteous gentleman of forty-five - rose at our entrance and addressed me as "the doctor." Mr Reginald Anstey, the brother-in-law, stood at the window with the family's solicitor, Mr Burrage, and a pile of papers between them.