breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram. It

was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:


“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the

west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if

you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the

11:15.”


“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me.

“Will you go?”


“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at

present.”


“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a

little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are

always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.”


“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one

of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for

I have only half an hour.”


My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making

me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less

than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington

Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt

figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and

close-fitting cloth cap.


“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It

makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can

thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed. If you

will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”


We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which

Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals

of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly

rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.


“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.