shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige

of colour had been driven from his face.


“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering

voice.


“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not

help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think

that I could be of assistance to you.”


“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”


“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people

don’t know.”


“But you can know nothing of this?”


“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some

geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named

Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his

club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”


“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried

the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can

hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”


Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we

had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept

market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther,

who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”


The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he

answered with a sidelong glance.


“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always

awkward doing business with an alias.”


A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,”

said he, “my real name is James Ryder.”


“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into

the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish

to know.”


The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened,

half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a