Wilson. Mr. Wilson, this is Dr. Watson. He works with me on many of my cases.”

The fat man got up and made me a little bow. Holmes sat back. He put his fingers together. (He often does that when he is thinking.) He smiled.

“Watson, my dear man, I know you love strange stories as much as I do. Mr. Wilson here has just started telling his tale. And it’s one of the strangest stories I have ever heard.”

Mr. Wilson looked proud. He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. “Look at this notice, Dr. Watson,” he said. “You may read it for yourself.”

I took the paper from him.

To All Red-headed Men

There is a job open at the Red-headed League. The pay is 4 pounds a week. The work is not very hard. To get the job you must have red hair. You must be a man over 21 years old. Come in person on Monday, at 11 o’clock, to 7 Fleet Street. Ask for Duncan Ross.

“What can it mean?” I asked.

Holmes gave a chuckle. “It is a little odd, isn’t it? Do tell us more, Mr. Wilson.”

“I own a store at Coburg Square,” said Wilson. “It’s a very small place. Of late years it has not done much more than give me a living. I used to have two helpers. Now I can pay only one. I can pay him only because he will work for half pay. I don’t know what I would do without him.”

“Hmm.