October gave way to November, and Watson reverted to his chair by the fire, finally glad that the Army had refused him that summer. I was glad too, for the rain which solved my latest case, and thought it appropriate that we celebrate. But after the first rattle of firecrackers outside drained all the blood from my fellow lodger's face I made haste to pour a little more brandy into his glass. "Guy Fawkes," I said, and he blinked away the haze of another vision.
"I remember," he said, and it was not only the gunpowder plot that he meant.