It is only now that I am assured that my old friend, Sherlock Holmes, reads nothing unconnected with bees, that I can write of what was, in the truth, the final problem with which he wrestled in his long career.

The day was a warm one for March, so I was surprised when I joined Holmes for tea and found the fire blazing. Mrs. Hudson had done herself proud -- or so it seemed, for Holmes had already begun, and there was little left but a single cucumber sandwich, a plate with six napoleons, and a dish of oranges, around which was scattered five orange pips and a pile of orange peel. Holmes looked unusually pale.

"Are you well?" I asked.

"Not at all," he replied. "You see before you a dying detective, or so I feel. I must see my dentist, always an unpleasant event. Here," he said, and twisted his lip so I might see the place where his tooth had been knocked out, "you thee a thor bridge and a blue carbuncle beneath it. Infection, or thum thuch thing, has taken place. I do not look forward to the cure. But what do you make of this, Watson? You know my methods."

I examined the cardboard box which lay upon the table. It was tied with a speckled band of linen and sealed with a waxen red circle which had already been broken. Upon opening the box, I discovered a small crystal object, cunningly crafted from loops of glass.

"Is this a question of identity?" I asked Holmes. "It looks expensive and must have come from a rather illustrious client, perhaps to repay a debt of gratitude."

"Yes, but which one? I cannot think who would send me a glass slipper, and so lifted in the back that it would fit only a devil's foot."

It was then that I knew the time had come to encourage my old friend to retire alone, as that noble bachelor had long wished, to the Sussex Downs and his bees. For I had solved a mystery he could not, and it was well within my powers.

Holmes had forgotten from whence, in all of Europe, came the best and most intricate glass. The object was, of course, a sandal from Bohemia.