| "I
am afraid, Watson that I shall have to go," said Holmes as we sat down together
to our breakfast one morning. "Go!
Where to?"
"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."
I was
not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already been mixed up
in this extraordinary case, which was the one topic of conversation through the
length and breadth of England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about
the room with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging
his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of my questions
or remarks. Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our news agent,
only to be glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he was,
I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding. There was but one
problem before the public which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that
was the singular disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the
tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his intention of
setting out for the scene of the drama, it was only what I had both expected and
hoped for.
"I should be most happy to go down with you if I should
not be in the way," said I. "My
dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming. And I think that
your time will not be misspent, for there are points about the case which promise
to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our
train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon our journey. You
would oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field-glass."
|
