thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went

up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,

clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.


“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you

would go from here to the Strand.”


“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly,

closing the door.


“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He

is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not

sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him

before.”


“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for

a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you

inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.”


“Not him.”


“What then?”


“The knees of his trousers.”


“And what did you see?”


“What I expected to see.”


“Why did you beat the pavement?”


“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are

spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let

us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”


The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the

retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of

a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the

traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the

immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while

the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was

difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately

business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and

stagnant square which we had just quitted.


“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing

along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses