Easter Break

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The Read-Headed League, part 2

ˈtraɪ ðə seˈtiː ˈsed ˈhəʊmz | rɪˈlæpsɪŋ ˈɪntu ɪz ˈɑːmʧeər | əm ˈpʊtɪŋ ɪz ˈfɪŋɡətɪps təˈɡeðə | ˈæz wəz ɪz ˈkʌstəm | ˈwen ɪn ʤuˈdɪʃl̩ ˈmuːdz || aɪ ˈnəʊ maɪ ˈdɪə ˈwɒtsn̩ | ðəʧu ˈʃeə maɪ ˈlʌv | əv ˈɔːl ðəts bɪˈzɑːr | ən ˈaʊtˈsaɪd ðə kənˈvenʃn̩z | ən ˈhʌmdrʌm ruˈtiːn | əv ˈevrideɪ ˈlaɪf || juv ˈʃəʊn jɔː ˈrelɪʃ ˈfɔːr ɪt | baɪ ði ɪnˈθuːziæzm̩ | wɪʧ əz ˈprɒmtɪʤu tə ˈkrɒnəkl̩ | ˈænd | ˈɪf jul ɪkˈskjuːz maɪ ˈseɪɪŋ ˈsəʊ | ˈsʌmwɒt tu ɪmˈbelɪʃ | ˈsəʊ ˈmeni əv maɪ ˈəʊn ˈlɪtl̩ ədˈvenʧəz

jɔː ˈkeɪsɪz əv ɪnˈdiːb biːn ə ðə ˈɡreɪtɪst ˈɪntres tə mi aɪ əbˈzɜːvd

jul rɪˈmembə ðət aɪ rɪˈmɑːk ði ˈʌðə ˈdeɪ | ˈʤʌs bɪˈfɔː wi ˈwent ɪntə ðə ˈveri ˈsɪmpl̩ ˈprɒbləm | prɪˈzentɪb baɪ ˈmɪs ˈmeəri ˈsʌðələnd | ðət fə ˈstreɪnʤ ɪˈfeks | ən ɪkˈstrɔːdn̩ri ˈkɒmbəˈneɪʃn̩z | wi məs ˈɡəʊ tə ˈlaɪf ɪtˈself | wɪʧ ɪz ˈɔːwɪz ˈfɑː ˈmɔː ˈdeərɪŋ | ðə ˈeni ˈefət ə ði ɪˈmæʤəˈneɪʃn̩

ə ˈprɒpəˈzɪʃn̩ | wɪʧ aɪ ˈtʊk ðə ˈlɪbəti əv ˈdaʊtɪŋ

“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.”

“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”

The Red-Headed League, part 1

aɪɡ ˈkɔːld əˈpɒm maɪ ˈfrend | ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | ˈwʌn ˈdeɪ ɪn ði ˈɔːtəm əv ˈlɑːs ˈjɪər | ən ˈfaʊnd ɪm ɪn ˈdiːp ˈkɒnvəˈseɪʃn̩ | wɪð ə ˈveri ˈstaʊt | ˈflɒrɪd ˈfeɪst ˈeldəli ˈʤentl̩mən | wɪð ˈfaɪəri ˈred ˈheə || wɪð ən əˈpɒləʤi fə maɪ ɪnˈtruːʒn̩ | aɪ wəz əˈbaʊt tə wɪðˈdrɔː | wen ˈhəʊmz ˈpʊl mi əˈbrʌpli ˈɪntə ðə ˈruːm | əŋ ˈkləʊzd ðə ˈdɔː bɪˈhaɪm mi

ju ˈkʊbm̩ ˈpɒsəbli əv ˈkʌm | ət ə ˈbetə ˈtaɪm maɪ ˈdɪə ˈwɒtsn̩ | hi ˈseɡ ˈkɔːdiəli

aɪ wəz əˈfreɪd ðəʧu wər ɪŋˈɡeɪʤd

ˈsəʊ aɪ ˈæm || ˈveri ˈmʌʧ ˈsəʊ

ðen aɪ kən ˈweɪt ɪn ðə ˈneks ˈruːm

ˈnɒt ə ˈtɔːl | ˈðɪs ˈʤentl̩mən ˈmɪstə ˈwɪlsn̩ | həz biːm ˈpɑːtnər ən ˈhelpər | ɪm ˈmeni ə maɪ ˈməʊs səkˈsesfl̩ ˈkeɪsɪz | ən aɪ ˈhæv ˈnəʊ ˈdaʊt | ðət il ˈbiː ə ði ˈʌpməʊs ˈjuːs tə mi | ɪn ˈjɔːz ˈɔːlsəʊ

ðə ˈstaʊt ˈʤentl̩mən ˈhɑːf ˈrəʊz frəm ɪz ˈʧeər | əŋ ˈɡeɪv ə ˈbɒb əv ˈɡriːtɪŋ | wɪð ə ˈkwɪk ˈlɪtl̩ ˈkwesʧənɪŋ ˈɡlɑːns | frəm ɪz ˈsmɔːl ˈfæt ɪnˈsɜːkl̩d ˈaɪz

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.

“I was afraid that you were engaged.”

“So I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 4

ˈwɒt ə ˈwʊmən | ˈəʊ ˈwɒt ə ˈwʊmən ˈkraɪd ðə ˈkɪŋ əv bəˈhiːmiə | ˈwen wid ˈɔːl ˈθriː ˈred ðɪs ɪˈpɪsl̩ || ˈdɪd aɪ ˈnɒt ˈtel ju | ˈhaʊ ˈkwɪk ən ˈrezəluːt ʃi ˈwɒz || ˈwʊd ʃi ˈnɒt əv ˈmeɪd ən ˈæbrəbl̩ ˈkwiːn || ˈɪz ɪt ˈnɒt ə ˈpɪti | ʃi wəz ˈnɒt ɒm maɪ ˈlevl̩

frəm ˈwɒt aɪv ˈsiːn ə ðə ˈleɪdi | ʃi ˈsiːmz ɪnˈdiːd | tə bi ˈɒn ə ˈveri ˈdɪfrənt ˈlevl̩ | tə jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈsed ˈhəʊmz ˈkəʊldli || aɪm ˈsɒri ðət aɪv ˈnɒp biːn ˈeɪbl̩ | tə ˈbrɪŋ jɔː ˈmæʤəstiz ˈbɪznəs | tu ə ˈmɔː səkˈsesfl̩ kəŋˈkluːʒn̩

ˈɒn ðə ˈkɒntrəri maɪ ˈdɪə ˈsɜː | ˈkraɪd ðə ˈkɪŋ | ˈnʌθɪŋ kəb bi ˈmɔː səkˈsesfl̩ || aɪ ˈnəʊ ðət ɜː ˈwɜːdz ɪnˈvaɪələt || ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːfs ˈnaʊ əz ˈseɪf | əz ˈɪf ɪt wər ˈɪn ðə ˈfaɪə

aɪm ˈɡlæd tə ˈhɪə jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈseɪ ˈsəʊ

aɪm ɪˈmensli ɪnˈdetɪd tə ju || ˈpreɪ ˈtel mi | ɪn ˈwɒt ˈweɪ aɪ kən rɪˈwɔːʤu || ˈðɪs ˈrɪŋ || hi ˈslɪpt ən ˈemrəld ˈsneɪk ˈrɪŋ | frəm ɪz ˈfɪŋɡə | ən ˈheld ɪt ˈaʊt | ɒn ðə ˈpɑːm əv ɪz ˈhænd

jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈhæz ˈsʌmθɪŋ | wɪʧ aɪ ʃəd ˈvæljuː ˈiːvn̩ ˈmɔː ˈhaɪli ˈsed ˈhəʊmz

ju ˈhæv ˈbʌt tə ˈneɪm ɪt

ˈðɪs ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf

ðə ˈkɪŋ ˈsteəd ət ɪm ɪn əˈmeɪzmənt

ˈaɪriːnz ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf i ˈkraɪd || ˈsɜːtn̩li | ɪf ju ˈwɪʃ ɪt

aɪ ˈθæŋk jɔː ˈmæʤəsti || ˈðen ðəz ˈnəʊ ˈmɔː tə bi ˈdʌn ɪn ðə ˈmætə || aɪ ˈhæv ði ˈɒnə tə ˈwɪʃ ju | ə ˈveri ˈɡʊb ˈmɔːnɪŋ || hi ˈbaʊd | ən ˈtɜːnɪŋ əˈweɪ | wɪˈðaʊt əbˈzɜːvɪŋ ðə ˈhænd | wɪʧ ðə ˈkɪŋ əd ˈstreʧt ˈaʊt tu ɪm | hi ˈset ˈɒf ɪm maɪ ˈkʌmpəni | fər ɪz ˈʧeɪmbəz

ən ˈðæt wəz ˈhaʊ ə ˈɡreɪt ˈskændl̩ | ˈθretn̩ tu əˈfek ðə ˈkɪŋdəm əv bəˈhiːmiə | ən ˈhaʊ ðə ˈbes ˈplænz əv ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | wə ˈbiːpm̩ baɪ ə ˈwʊmənz ˈwɪt || hi ˈjuːs tə ˈmeɪk ˈmeri | ˈəʊvə ðə ˈklevənəs əv ˈwɪmɪn | bət aɪv ˈnɒt ˈhɜːd ɪm ˈduː ɪt əv ˈleɪt || ən ˈwen i ˈspiːks əv ˈaɪriːn ˈædlə | ɔː ˈwen i rɪˈfɜːz tu ɜː ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | ɪts ˈɔːwɪz ˈʌndə ði ˈɒnrəbl̩ ˈtaɪtl̩ | əv ˈðiː ˈwʊmən

 Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library. http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/10.html

“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”

“From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more successful conclusion.”

“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”

“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”

“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes.

“You have but to name it.”

“This photograph!”

The King stared at him in amazement.

“Irene's photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”

“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning.” He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 3

maɪ ˈdɪə ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz

ju ˈrɪəli ˈdɪd ɪt ˈveri ˈwel || ju ˈtʊk mi ˈɪŋ kəmˈpliːtli || ənˈtɪl ˈɑːftə ði əˈlɑːm əv ˈfaɪə | aɪ ˈhædn̩ ə səˈspɪʃn̩ || bət ˈðen | ˈwen aɪ ˈfaʊnd ˈhaʊ aɪb bɪˈtreɪb maɪˈself | aɪ bɪˈɡæn tə ˈθɪŋk || ˈaɪb biːn ˈwɔːnd əˈɡensʧu | ˈmʌnθs əˈɡəʊ || aɪb biːn ˈtəʊld | ðət ˈɪf ðə ˈkɪŋ ɪmˈplɔɪd ən ˈeɪʤənt | ɪt əd ˈsɜːtn̩li bi ˈjuː || ən jɔːr əˈdres əb biːŋ ˈɡɪvm̩ mi || ˈjet wɪð ˈɔːl ˈðɪs | ju ˈmeɪb mi rɪˈviːl | wɒʧu ˈwɒntɪd tə ˈnəʊ || ˈiːvn̩ ˈɑːftər aɪ bɪˈkeɪm səˈspɪʃəs | aɪ ˈfaʊnd ɪt ˈhɑːd tə ˈθɪŋk ˈiːvl̩ | əv ˈsʌʧ ə ˈdɪə ˈkaɪnd ˈəʊl ˈklɜːʤimən || bəʧu ˈnəʊ | aɪv biːn ˈtraɪnd əz ən ˈæktrəs maɪˈself || ˈmeɪl ˈkɒsʧuːm | ɪz ˈnʌθɪŋ ˈnjuː tə mi || aɪ ˈɒfn̩ ˈteɪk ədˈvɑːntɪʤ | ə ðə ˈfriːdəm ɪk ˈɡɪvz || aɪ ˈsent ˈʤɒn | ðə ˈkəʊʧmən | tə ˈwɒʧ ju | ˈræn ˈʌp ˈsteəz | ˈɡɒt ɪntə maɪ ˈwɔːkɪŋ ˈkləʊz əz aɪ ˈkɔːl ðəm | əŋ ˈkeɪm ˈdaʊn | ˈʤʌst əz ju dɪˈpɑːtɪd

wel aɪ ˈfɒləʊʤu tə jɔː ˈdɔː | ən ˈsəʊ ˈmeɪd ˈʃɔː | ðət aɪ wəz ˈrɪəli ən ˈɒbʤekt əv ˈɪntrest | tə ðə ˈseləbreɪtɪb ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz || ˈðen aɪ ˈrɑːdər ɪmˈpruːdn̩tli | ˈwɪʃʧu ˈɡʊd ˈnaɪt | ən ˈstɑːtɪd fə ðə ˈtempl̩ | tə ˈsiː maɪ ˈhʌzbənd

wi ˈbəʊθ ˈθɔːt | ðə ˈbes rɪˈzɔːs wəz ˈflaɪt | wem pəˈsuːb baɪ ˈsəʊ fəˈmɪdəbl̩ ən ænˈtæɡənɪst | səʊ jul ˈfaɪn ðə ˈnest ˈemti | wen ju ˈkɔːl təˈmɒrəʊ || ˈæz tə ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | jɔː ˈklaɪəmp meɪ ˈrest ɪm ˈpiːs || aɪ ˈlʌv ən əm ˈlʌvd | baɪ ə ˈbetə ˈmæn ðən ˈhiː || ðə ˈkɪŋ meɪ ˈduː wɒt i ˈwɪl | wɪˈðaʊt ˈhɪndrəns | frəm ˈwʌn huːm iz ˈkruːəli ˈrɒŋd || aɪ ˈkiːp ɪt ˈəʊnli tə ˈseɪfɡɑːb maɪˈself | ən tə prɪˈzɜːv ə ˈwepən | wɪʧl̩ ˈɔːwɪz sɪˈkjɔː mi | frəm ˈeni ˈsteps | wɪʧ i ˈmaɪt ˈteɪk ɪn ðə ˈfjuːʧə || aɪ ˈliːv ə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | wɪʧ i ˈmaɪk ˈkeə tə pəˈzes | ən aɪ rɪˈmeɪn | ˈdɪə ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz

ˈveri ˈtruːli ˈjɔːz

ˈaɪriːn ˈnɔːtn | ˈneɪ ˈædlə

“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:

“You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed.

“Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband.

“We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

“Very truly yours,
“Irene Norton, née Adler.”

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 2

ðə ˈdɔːr əv ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ | wəz ˈəʊpən | ən ən ˈeldəli ˈwʊmən | ˈstʊd əˈpɒn ðə ˈsteps || ʃi ˈwɒʧt əs | wɪð ə sɑːˈdɒnɪk ˈaɪ | əz wi ˈstep frəm ðə ˈbruːəm

ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz aɪ bɪˈliːv ˈsed ʃi

aɪ ˈæm ˈmɪstə ˈhəʊmz | ˈɑːnsəb maɪ kəmˈpænjən | ˈlʊkɪŋ ˈæt ə | wɪð ə ˈkwesʧənɪŋ | ən ˈrɑːðə ˈstɑːtl̩ɡ ˈɡeɪz

ɪnˈdiːd || maɪ ˈmɪstrəs ˈtəʊl mi | ðəʧu wə ˈlaɪkli tə ˈkɔːl || ʃi ˈlef ðɪs ˈmɔːnɪŋ | wɪð ɜː ˈhʌzbənd | baɪ ðə ˈfaɪv ˈfɪftiːn ˈtraɪn | frəm ˈʧærɪŋ ˈkrɒs | fə ðə ˈkɒntənənt

ˈwɒt || ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz ˈstæɡəb ˈbæk | ˈwaɪt wɪð ˈʃæɡrɪn ən səˈpraɪz || ʤu ˈmiːn ðət ʃiz ˈleft ˈɪŋɡlənd

ˈnevə tə rɪˈtɜːn

ən ðə ˈpeɪpəz ˈɑːs ðə ˈkɪŋ ˈhɔːsli || ˈɔːl ɪz ˈlɒst

wi ʃl̩ ˈsiː || hi ˈpʊʃ ˈpɑːs ðə ˈsɜːvənt | ən ˈrʌʃt ɪntə ðə ˈdrɔːrɪŋ ˈruːm | ˈfɒləʊb baɪ ðə ˈkɪŋ əm məˈself || ðə ˈfɜːnəʧə wəz ˈskætəd əˈbaʊt | ɪn ˈevri dəˈrekʃn̩ | wɪð dɪsˈmæntl̩d ˈʃelvz | ən ˈəʊpən ˈdrɔːz | əz ˈɪf ðə ˈleɪdi | əd ˈhʌrɪdli ˈrænsæk ðəm | bɪˈfɔːr ɜː ˈflaɪt || ˈhəʊmz ˈrʌʃt ət ðə ˈbel ˈpʊl | ˈtɔː ˈbæk ə ˈsmɔːl ˈslaɪdɪŋ ˈʃʌtə | əm ˈplʌnʤɪŋ ɪn ɪz ˈhænd | ˈpʊld ˈaʊt ə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | ən ə ˈletə || ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | wəz əv ˈaɪriːn ˈædlər əˈself | ɪn ˈiːvnɪŋ ˈdres | ðə ˈletə wəz ˈsuːpəˈskraɪbd | tə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz ɪˈskwaɪə || tə bi ˈlef tɪl ˈkɔːld ˈfɔː || maɪ ˈfren ˈtɔːr ɪt ˈəʊpən | ən wi ˈɔːl ˈθriː ˈred ɪt təˈɡeðə || ɪt wəz ˈdeɪtɪd əp ˈmɪdnaɪt | əv ðə prɪˈsiːdɪŋ ˈnaɪt | ən ˈræn ɪn ˈðɪs ˈweɪ

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.

“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze.

“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”

“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”

“Never to return.”

“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”

“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 1

aɪ ˈslept əp ˈbeɪkə ˈstriːt ˈðæt ˈnaɪt | ən wi wər ɪŋˈɡeɪʤd əˈpɒn ɑː ˈtəʊst əŋ ˈkɒfi | ɪn ðə ˈmɔːnɪŋ | ˈwen ðə ˈkɪŋ əv bəˈhiːmiə ˈrʌʃt ɪntə ðə ˈruːm

juv ˈrɪəli ˈɡɒt ɪt i ˈkraɪd | ˈɡrɑːspɪŋ ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | baɪ ˈaɪðə ˈʃəʊldər | ən ˈlʊkɪŋ ˈiːɡəli ˈɪntu ɪz ˈfeɪs

ˈnɒt ˈjet

bəʧu ˈhæv ˈhəʊps

aɪ ˈhæv ˈhəʊps

ðeŋ ˈkʌm || aɪm ˈɔːl ɪmˈpeɪʃn̩s tə bi ˈɡɒn

wi ˈmʌst ˈhæv ə ˈkæb

ˈnəʊ | maɪ ˈbruːəmz ˈweɪtɪŋ

ðen ˈðætl̩ ˈsɪmpləfaɪ ˈmætəz || wi dɪˈsendɪd | ən ˈstɑːtɪd ˈɒf ˈwʌns ˈmɔː | fə ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ

ˈaɪriːn ˈædləz ˈmærid rɪˈmɑːkt ˈhəʊmz

ˈmærid || ˈwen

ˈjestədeɪ

bət tə ˈhuːm

tu ən ˈɪŋɡlɪʃ ˈlɔɪə | ˈneɪmd ˈnɔːtn̩

bət ʃi ˈkʊd ˈnɒt ˈlʌv ɪm

aɪm ɪn ˈhəʊps ðət ʃi ˈdʌz

ən ˈwaɪ ɪn ˈhəʊps

bɪˈkɒz ɪt əd ˈspeə jɔː ˈmæʤəsti | ˈɔːl ˈfɪər əv ˈfjuːʧər əˈnɔɪəns || ɪf ðə ˈleɪdi ˈlʌvz ɜː ˈhʌzbənd | ʃi ˈdʌzn̩ ˈlʌv jɔː ˈmæʤəsti || ɪf ʃi ˈdʌzn̩ ˈlʌv jɔː ˈmæʤəsti | ðəz ˈnəʊ ˈriːzn̩ | ˈwaɪ ʃi ʃʊd ˈɪntəˈfɪə | wɪð jɔː ˈmæʤəstiz ˈplæn

ɪts ˈtruː || ən ˈjet | ˈwel || aɪ ˈwɪʃ ʃib ˈbiːn əv maɪ ˈəʊn ˈsteɪʃn̩ || ˈwɒt ə ˈkwiːn ʃid əv ˈmeɪd || hi rɪˈlæpst ɪntu ə ˈmuːdi ˈsaɪləns | wɪʧ wəz ˈnɒp ˈbrəʊkən | ənˈtɪl wi ˈdruː ˈʌp | ɪn ˈsɜːpəntaɪn ˈævənjuː

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.

“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

“Not yet.”

“But you have hopes?”

“I have hopes.”

“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”

“We must have a cab.”

“No, my brougham is waiting.”

“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for Briony Lodge.

“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.

“Married! When?”

“Yesterday.”

“But to whom?”

“To an English lawyer named Norton.”

“But she could not love him.”

“I am in hopes that she does.”

“And why in hopes?”

“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty's plan.”

“It is true. And yet—Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.