My dear friend Sherlock Holmes sometimes deployed a personal and peculiar mode of justice, thereby allowing the guilty to receive a measure of mercy where the law provides none. He has told me, “I believe in second chances, depending, of course, on the gravity of the crime. I do not, however, much believe in third chances.”

That aphorism described the dilemma facing one Cuthbert Fowler, a man in peril of being proven culpable by Holmes for a second time. Although the accusations against him were straightforward, this case possessed a noteworthy turn of fortune beyond my meagre abilities to foresee.

All that was left of our morning’s breakfast routine was tea. Between sips, I buried my nose in the Sunday paper, scouting for items of interest. Holmes puffed on his pipe, his brow furrowed, his eyes keen, deep in contemplation.

Some sounds came from the outside hall.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” Holmes said a moment before she rapped on the door to our room.

Our landlady opened the door just a crack, enough to peek in and say, “Pardon my intrusion, but I have a young lady here who is quite insistent that she sees you, Mr. Holmes. She followed me up the stairs.” A young, ginger-headed lady pressed open the door, entered, and stood before us.

Now, when imposed upon, Holmes could oft be brusque, even toward those of the gentle sex. His particular reaction depended upon how bored or how curious he was at a given moment. I suspect in this case, having just finished one of Mrs. Hudson’s fine meals helped appease his sometimes acerbity.

“My dear Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “thank you for bringing this woman to my attention. You may go.” Mrs. Hudson efficiently collected our plates and service ware and parted.

I stood to greet the young lady. “Dr. John H. Watson.”

“Dr. Watson,” she echoed.

Holmes remained seated, turning a studying eye her way. “We have met before, Miss Phoebe Fowler.”

“Yessir, Mr. Holmes.” The young woman possessed a maidenly demeanor: guileless and earnest and seemed not far beyond school age. She bristled with a nervous energy, undoubtedly agitated by whatever compelled her to come here. “We did meet but briefly, a long time ago. I am surprised you remember me.”

Such a statement served as a challenge to my friend. He leaned back, smiling slyly. “A long time has a different meaning to a youth and to those of us who wear decades on their shoulders. In my perspective, a long time ago, you were not yet born. Let us say, instead, twelve years. You were a child of five, the daughter of Cuthbert Fowler, one of my first cases, one undertaken before I had yet to meet the good doctor. Your reddish-brown hair, even your stately bearing for such a young child remained fixed in my mind. You have chosen to comb a fringe of your hair over your forehead to hide a rather large birthmark. As I recall, your father claimed it bore the shape of the Emerald Isle, although I suppose this was out of ancestral pride and the fact that any jagged blotch shares the form of Ireland.”

Phoebe blushed. “And you were there in my first memories,” she said. “You saved my father from prison. He needs your help again.”

“Dear me,” the great detective said. “If I were to engage the same clients again and again, I wouldn’t be of much use to anyone else.” Holmes stood, forcefully looking down on the woman. “In that previous encounter, your father proved guilty. Has he told you as much?”

“He told me the truth. He would never lie to me. Yes, he committed that crime, and yet, you granted him a sort of clemency.”

“And now he is, once more, in need of my mercy?” Sherlock said, his face hardened.

“He is innocent!” Phoebe declared with that fervor of belief that comes only in the young. “I know it!”

Although reported to me at a later time, I herein present Holmes’s account of his first encounter with Cuthbert Fowler and his daughter to provide crucial context for the case that follows.