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"The Adventure of Black Peter" is a Sherlock Holmes story by Arthur Conan Doyle. This tale is in the collection "The Return of Sherlock Holmes", but was published originally in 1904 in the Strand Magazine and Collier's. Forest Row in the Weald is the scene of a harpoon murder, and a young police inspector, Stanley Hopkins, asks Holmes, whom he admires, for help. Holmes has already determined that it would take a great deal of strength and skill to run a man through with a harpoon and embed it in the wall behind him.

"The Adventure of the Empty House", one of the 56 Sherlock Holmes short stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, is one of 13 stories in the cycle collected as "The Return of Sherlock Holmes". Public pressure forced Conan Doyle to bring the sleuth back to life, and explain his apparently miraculous survival of a deadly struggle with Professor Moriarty. This is the first Holmes story set after his supposed death at the Reichenbach Falls, as recounted in "The Final Problem". The Hound of the Baskervilles had seen the return of a pre-Reichenbach Falls Sherlock Holmes, which only served to whet readers' appetites.

"The Adventure of the Dancing Men", a Sherlock Holmes story written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, is one of 13 stories in the cycle published as "The Return of Sherlock Holmes" in 1905. Doyle ranked "The Adventure of the Dancing Men" third in his list of his twelve favorite Holmes stories. This is one of only two Sherlock Holmes short stories where Holmes' client dies after seeking his help. The other is "The Five Orange Pips", part of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The original title was "The Dancing Men," when it was published as a short story in The Strand Magazine in December 1903.

"The Adventure of the Priory School", one of the 56 Sherlock Holmes short stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, is one of 13 stories in the cycle collected as "The Return of Sherlock Holmes". Doyle ranked "The Adventure of the Priory School" tenth in his list of his twelve favorite Holmes stories.

Tom trzydziesty z serii klasycznych opowieści detektywistycznych Arthura Conan Doyle'a o Sherlocku Holmesie w uproszczonych adaptacjach dla dzieci. Idealna propozycja dla młodych wielbicieli zagadek i kapitalne wprowadzenie do klasyki. Po tym jak postanowił zakończyć karierę detektywa, Holmes zamieszkał w Sussex w nadziei, że nic mu tam już nie zakłóci codziennego spokoju. Gdy miejscowy nauczyciel umiera na jego oczach, Holmes nie bacząc na niebezpieczeństwo zabiera się do rozwiązania sprawy. Bez pomocy Watsona będzie musiał dociec, jak zostały zadane nietypowe rany, a następnie spośród kilku podejrzanych wyłonić sprawcę.

KLASYCZNA POWIEŚĆ DETEKTYWISTYCZNA Z NUTKĄ DRESZCZYKU AUTORSTWA SIR ARTHURA CONANA DOYLE’A W WERSJI DLA DZIECI! Gdy przedstawicieli rodu Baskerville’ów zaczyna prześladować ogromny czarny pies otoczony upiorną poświatą, jedyną osobą, która może im pomóc, jest Sherlock Holmes! Słynny detektyw wspólnie z Doktorem Watsonem tropi bestię wśród zdradliwych bagien. Gdy w końcu rozwiązuje zagadkę, dowiaduje się przy okazji czegoś na temat ludzkiej chciwości, kłamstwa i iluzji.

Tom dwudziesty dziewiąty z serii klasycznych opowieści detektywistycznych Arthura Conan Doyle'a o Sherlocku Holmesie w uproszczonych adaptacjach dla dzieci. Idealna propozycja dla młodych wielbicieli zagadek i kapitalne wprowadzenie do klasyki. Skradziono tajny rządowy dokument. Zadaniem Holmesa i Watsona jest teraz odnaleźć zaginiony papier i zapobiec wojnie! Poszukiwania komplikują knowania tajnych agentów, tajemnicze morderstwo i zagadka krwawej plamy. Czy uda im się w porę poskładać elementy tej układanki? Dla dzieci powyżej 7 lat.

The words of the missionary hymn I had sung as a schoolboy in chapel came to my mind as I stood on the deck of the steamer Redolent, anchored just off the Port of Colombo. They were to prove singularly prescient. Under more usual circumstances, the experience of looking up into the star-studded sky whilst feeling the warm, moist tropical breezes caress one's face is a sensuous joy. Yet on that night, more than twenty years ago now, I had a profound sense of foreboding.

The words of the missionary hymn I had sung as a schoolboy in chapel came to my mind as I stood on the deck of the steamer Redolent, anchored just off the Port of Colombo. They were to prove singularly prescient. Under more usual circumstances, the experience of looking up into the star-studded sky whilst feeling the warm, moist tropical breezes caress one's face is a sensuous joy. Yet on that night, more than twenty years ago now, I had a profound sense of foreboding.

"I was under the impression that you were dead," said Sherlock Holmes to the man who had entered the front room of 221B Baker Street. "I am now inclined to think that you were not murdered after all." The gentleman was of the same age as Holmes and me but sported a full beard, gray-on-its-way-to-white hair, and a short suit jacket that immediately identified him as an American. He grinned and gave his fingers a snap.

"I was under the impression that you were dead," said Sherlock Holmes to the man who had entered the front room of 221B Baker Street. "I am now inclined to think that you were not murdered after all." The gentleman was of the same age as Holmes and me but sported a full beard, gray-on-its-way-to-white hair, and a short suit jacket that immediately identified him as an American. He grinned and gave his fingers a snap.

"Ah, Watson, how good of you to join me. I trust I did not disturb your work at the hospital." "Not at all. We younger doctors are not exactly choc-a-block with patients." "Not yet, my dear chap. Not yet. However, I am very grateful that you are here, and I expect that you will quite enjoy recording my meeting with this fellow."

Royston Giles Tamblyn III paid a visit to 221B Baker Street without a prior appointment on the morning of Saturday, 4 May 1901. He was a handsome young fellow, with flawless pale skin, well-combed hair that was blond-on-its-way-to-brown, and straight, gleaming teeth. He was dressed in a blazer and flannels, a creaseless white shirt, and an expertly tied old-school tie. In his polished boots, I could have seen my reflection had I bent over to inspect them.

"To the man who loves intellectual stimulation," remarked Sherlock Holmes, "London in August is the lowliest month on the calendar. Those with the means to do so have departed for the Algarve and the Riviera. Those without are off to Blackpool and Brighton." "And what about those," I asked, "who are left behind? You and I are still here." "You at least have your sensational accounts of my efforts to keep scribbling. I, on the other hand, am losing faith in the enterprising criminal class."

On Easter Sunday of 1919, Lady Lillian Assherton attempted to take her own life, a second time. Her first attempt was in the fall of 1917 when Her Ladyship, recently widowed, received news that both of her sons, officers in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, died at Passchendaele.

Royston Giles Tamblyn III paid a visit to 221B Baker Street without a prior appointment on the morning of Saturday, 4 May 1901. He was a handsome young fellow, with flawless pale skin, well-combed hair that was blond-on-its-way-to-brown, and straight, gleaming teeth. He was dressed in a blazer and flannels, a creaseless white shirt, and an expertly tied old-school tie. In his polished boots, I could have seen my reflection had I bent over to inspect them.

"To the man who loves intellectual stimulation," remarked Sherlock Holmes, "London in August is the lowliest month on the calendar. Those with the means to do so have departed for the Algarve and the Riviera. Those without are off to Blackpool and Brighton." "And what about those," I asked, "who are left behind? You and I are still here." "You at least have your sensational accounts of my efforts to keep scribbling. I, on the other hand, am losing faith in the enterprising criminal class."

On Easter Sunday of 1919, Lady Lillian Assherton attempted to take her own life, a second time. Her first attempt was in the fall of 1917 when Her Ladyship, recently widowed, received news that both of her sons, officers in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, died at Passchendaele.

Sherlock Holmes was not happy. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I will not see her now. Send her away and tell her to come back later." It was just past seven in the morning and we were enjoying an early coffee on a pleasant Sunday in the first week of June 1902, when Mrs. Hudson interrupted us. Holmes's longsuffering landlady did not leave.

Sherlock Holmes was not happy. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I will not see her now. Send her away and tell her to come back later." It was just past seven in the morning and we were enjoying an early coffee on a pleasant Sunday in the first week of June 1902, when Mrs. Hudson interrupted us. Holmes's longsuffering landlady did not leave.