nst this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by
a small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes
in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the
house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be
further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the
circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up
and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the
opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny,
he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass
which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice
he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation
of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey
soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was
unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it.
Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his
perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal
which was hidden from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and
wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of you to
come," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."
"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd
of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No
doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you
permitted this."
"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said
evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him
to look after this."
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two
such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be
much for a third party to find out," he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done
all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though, and I
knew your taste for such things."
"You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"No, sir."
"Nor Lestrade?"
"No, sir."
"Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark he
strode on into the house, followed by Greg
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