forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal which was

answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle

of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs.


“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through

the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side

lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”


“If I can be of use.”


“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so.

My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.”


“The Cedars?”


“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I

conduct the inquiry.”


“Where is it, then?”


“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”


“But I am all in the dark.”


“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up

here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look

out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!”


He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless

succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we

were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing

sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar,

its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the

songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting

slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through

the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his

breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him,

curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so

sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had

driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of