weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?”


“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of

relief.


“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own

bird, so if you wish—”


The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics

of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what

use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me.

No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to

the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”


Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his

shoulders.


“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By

the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am

somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.”


“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly

gained property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the

Alpha Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during

the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted

a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were

each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is

familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted

neither to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner

he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.


“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the

door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever

about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”


“Not particularly.”


“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this

clue while it is still hot.”


“By all means.”


It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our