love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved.

But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts.”


As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to

announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small

black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock

Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and,

having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in

the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.


“Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is

a little trying to do so much typewriting?”


“I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the

letters are without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport

of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and

astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve heard

about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know all

that?”


“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to

know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not,

why should you come to consult me?”


“I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose

husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for

dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I’m not rich,

but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I

make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr.

Hosmer Angel.”


“Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked

Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.


Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary

Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said,

“for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.