"Watson," Sherlock Holmes asked me, "A Mr. Thaddeus Sholto wrote me yesterday to ask if he might consult me on a matter which he says is of grave importance. He should arrive presently. Would you be able to join us?"
"Nothing would please me more, Holmes," I said. "What did he say in his letter to you?"
"He didn't give me any facts, Watson, but I'm sure he will be sharing them with us presently." I heard the sound of a car rolling to a stop outside 221B Baker Street. "That must be him now," Holmes said. He crossed to the window and looked down at Baker Street, where a tall bronzed man was alighting from a taxicab. "Hm. Beyond the obvious points that he is fifty-six years old, holds a degree from Oxford -- Christchurch College, I should think --, is expert in Near Eastern languages, has recently spent a considerable time in the Arctic, owns a country house in Dorset, and has three children, nothing out of the ordinary comes to mind as I look at him."
"Holmes!" I cried. "That is remarkable! You are able to deduce all that from a few seconds' observation?"
"Not at all, Watson," Holmes replied, drawing on his pipe. "I Googled him this morning."