"Mr. Sherlock, how delighted I am to see you, it is our honor..." Mrs. Lane, the loyal servant of the Holmes family who has known the great detective since he was a child in short pants, cannot stop the trembling in her voice and the tears flowing from her cloudy old eyes. "It is an honor that you came..." "Nonsense." Avoiding, as usual, any display of emotion, Sherlock Holmes examines the dark wooden paneling of the Ferndell Mansion. "I am glad to have the opportunity to visit my family home." Dressed in summer outdoor attire – beige linen suit, light brown boots, goatskin gloves, and a deer hunter's hat – he leaves the gloves and hat on the living room table, along with his cane, and immediately gets to work. "Mr. Lane's telegram was rather cryptic. Please tell me, what is so strange about this package that you hesitate to open it?" Before she can answer, her husband, the white-haired butler, hurriedly enters the living room, showing less dignity than usual. "Mr. Sherlock! How kind of you!" And the same small talk must be repeated from the beginning.

"A great pleasure for us... very kind of you to come... it is very hot today... would you like, sir, to sit outside?" Thus, Sherlock Holmes settles hospitably on the shady veranda, where the breeze eases the heat, and Mrs. Lane offers him iced lemonade and macarons before Holmes manages to return to the matter at hand. "Lane," he asks the venerable butler, "what exactly worried you and Mrs. Lane about this package you recently received?" Trained for decades to handle all kinds of household disorder, Lane answers methodically: "First of all, Mr. Sherlock, the fact that it arrived during the night and we do not know who left it here." Showing less boredom for the first time, the great detective leans forward in his wicker chair. "Where was it left?" "At the kitchen door."