A table has been moved into the study and it is piled with books, papers and scraps of notes. Holmes sits at it, busily perusing a photograph (or a copy of one) with his glass. More books and papers spill out from boxes at his feet. He has been at this project for some time, judging by the overflowing ashtray and the pot and cup of stone cold coffee perched on a corner. Holmes sighs, massages the bridge of his nose and picks up a copy of the 1968 edition of The Criminalist for the third time.