A Study in Scarlet. Arthur Conan Doyle

I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it.”

      I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation; I thought it best to change the topic.

      “I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a message.

      “You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” said Sherlock Holmes.

      “Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He knows that I cannot verify his guess.”

      The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stairs.

      “For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter.

      Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little thought of this when he made that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I said, in the blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”

      “Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform away for repairs.”

      “And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my companion.

      “A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right, sir.”

      He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was gone.