A good helper who works for half pay,” said Holmes. “And what is the name of this nice young man?”

“Vincent Spaulding,” replied Wilson. “Oh, Vincent does have his problems. He is always down in the basement. He plays with all those cameras of his down there. A real photo nut. But on the whole he’s a very good worker.

“One day about eight weeks ago, Spaulding came into my room. He had this paper in his hand. ‘I tell you, Mr. Wilson,’ Spaulding said, ‘I wish I were a red-headed man. Here’s another job open at the Red-headed League.’

“Now, I had never heard of the Red-headed League. I don’t get out too much. But Spaulding knew all about it.

“He told me that the league had been started by Ezekiah Hopkins. Hopkins was an American millionaire. He had bright red hair.

“All his life people made fun of Hopkins because of his red hair. Then Hopkins came to London. In London he got rich. So he loved London. And he felt sorry for men with red hair. So when he died, Hopkins left his money to the red-headed men of London.

“Now, as you may have noticed, my hair is very red. So it was easy for Spaulding to talk me into giving the job a try. ‘What have you got to lose?’ he asked me.

“That was a Monday. It’s always a slow day at the store. So we shut the shop. Spaulding went with me to Fleet Street.

“I never saw such a sight. Fleet Street was packed with red-headed men. The street looked like a wagon full of oranges. I saw every shade of red you can think of. Orange red. Brick red.