The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had

been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the

aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the

agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high

gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat

actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span

it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles,

burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from

one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,

fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.


“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.


“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion

quietly.


“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”


“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a

seat.”


“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have

traced her. What has she been saying to you?”


“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.


“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously.


“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my

companion imperturbably.


“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step

forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have

heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”


My friend smiled.


“Holmes, the busybody!”


His smile broadened.


“Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”


Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,”

said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided

draught.”


“I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my