Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the

police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and

kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with

my things and came right away to you.”


“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since

the name is different.”


“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for

he is only five years and two months older than myself.”


“And your mother is alive?”


“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr.

Holmes, when she married again so soon after father’s death, and a man

who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the

Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother

carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her

sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They

got £ 4700 for the goodwill and interest, which wasn’t near as much as

father could have got if he had been alive.”


I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and

inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with the

greatest concentration of attention.


“Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the

business?”


“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in

Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand five

hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.”


“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw

so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no

doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a

single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about £ 60.”


“I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that