serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are

interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab

and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your

revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument with

gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I

think, all that we need.”


At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we

hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the

lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy

clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out

their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the

moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet

promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My

companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down

over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest

thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed

over the meadows.


“Look there!” said he.


A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove

at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables

and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.


“Stoke Moran?” said he.


“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the

driver.


“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that

is where we are going.”


“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster

of roofs some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house,

you’ll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath

over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”


“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading