George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until

to-morrow.”


There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and

cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and

we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.


“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It

is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired

of.”


“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.


“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad,

and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very

bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s, and, I may add,

a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm

rent free.”


“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.


“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here

speaks of his kindness to him.”


“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy,

who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such

obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner’s

daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very

cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would

follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to

the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from

that?”


“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade,

winking at me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without

flying away after theories and fancies.”


“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very

hard to tackle the facts.”


“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to

get hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth.


“And that is—”