throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the

breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our

footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors’

quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into

Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn,

which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs

down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered

two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.


“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,”

said he.


“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.


“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a

member of your goose club.”


“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our

geese.”


“Indeed! Whose, then?”


“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”


“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”


“Breckinridge is his name.”


“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health

landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night.”


“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as

we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so

homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man

who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can

establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his

guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed

by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us

follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick

march!”


We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums

to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of