hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard.

Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.


“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and

patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt.

You have come in by train this morning, I see.”


“You know me, then?”


“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your

left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a

dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”


The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.


“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The

left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The

marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up

mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the

driver.”


“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said

she. “I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past,

and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no

longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,

save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I

have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom

you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your

address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least

throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present

it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six

weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least

you shall not find me ungrateful.”


Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which

he consulted.