I had found out about it during an adventure worth mentioning.

A few weeks earlier, you see, my brother Sherlock had very nearly caught me. But in the crucial few minutes while he was summoning the constabulary to scour the streets for me, I had found an unlikely refuge: 221b Baker Street, that is to say, Sherlock's own lodgings, which I had entered by means of a plane-tree, a rooftop and a bedchamber window.

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