"I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am
aware of your profession, one of which I by no means
approve."
"In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement
with every criminal in the country," said my friend,
quietly.
"So far as your efforts are directed towards the
suppression of crime, sir, they must have the support
of every reasonable member of the community, though I
cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply
sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is
more open to criticism is when you pry into the
secrets of private individuals, when you rake up
family matters which are better hidden, and when you
incidentally waste the time of men who are more busy
than yourself. At the present moment, for example,
I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
with you."
"No doubt, doctor; and yet the conversation may prove
more important than the treatise. Incidentally I may
tell you that we are doing the reverse of what you
very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to
prevent anything like public exposure of private
matters which must necessarily follow when once the
case is fairly in the hands of the official police.
You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer
who goes in front of the regular forces of the
country. I have come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey
Staunton."
"What about him?"
"You know him, do you not?"
"He is an intimate friend of mine."
"You are aware that he has disappeared?"
"Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression in
the rugged features of the doctor.
"He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard
of."
"No doubt he will return."
"To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."
"I have no sympathy with these childish games. The
young man's fate interests me deeply, since I know him
and like him. The football match does not come within
my horizon at all."
"I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of
Mr. Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is?"
"Certainly not."
"You have not seen him since yesterday?"
"No, I have not."
"Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"
"Absolutely."
"Did you ever know him ill?"
"Never."
Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's
eyes. "Then perhaps you will explain this receipted
bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey
Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of
Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers upon
his desk."
The doctor flushed with anger.
"I do not feel that there is any reason why I should
render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes replaced the bill in his note-book. "If you
prefer a public explanation it must come sooner or
later," said he. "I have already told you that I can
hush up that which others will be bound to publish,
and you would really be wiser to take me into your
complete confidence."
"I know nothing about it."
"Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"
"Certainly not."
"Dear me, dear me; the post-office again!" Holmes
sighed, wearily. "A most urgent telegram was
dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton at
six-fifteen yesterday evening -- a telegram which is
undoubtedly associated with his disappearance -- and
yet you have not had it. It is most culpable.
I shall certainly go down to the office here and
register a complaint."
Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk,
and his dark face was crimson with fury.
"I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said
he. "You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James,
that I do not wish to have anything to do either with
him or with his agents. No, sir, not another word!"
He rang the bell furiously. "John, show these
gentlemen out!" A pompous butler ushered us severely
to the door, and we found ourselves in the street.
Holmes burst out laughing.
"Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character," said he. "I have not seen a man who, if
he turned his talents that way, was more calculated to
fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty. And
now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and
friendless in this inhospitable town, which we cannot
leave without abandoning our case. This little inn
just opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted
to our needs. If you would engage a front room and
purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have
time to make a few inquiries."
These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more
lengthy proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he
did not return to the inn until nearly nine o'clock.
He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and
exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was
ready upon the table, and when his needs were
satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take
that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was
natural to him when his affairs were going awry. The
sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance
out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys under
the glare of a gas-lamp stood before the doctor's
door.
"It's been out three hours," said Holmes; "started at
half-past six, and here it is back again. That gives
a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he does it once,
or sometimes twice, a day."
"No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."
"But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice.
He is a lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care
for general practice, which distracts him from his
literary work. Why, then, does he make these long
journeys, which must be exceedingly irksome to him,
and who is it that he visits?"
"His coachman ----"
"My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that
I first applied? I do not know whether it came from
his own innate depravity or from the promptings of his
master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.
Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick,
however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the
question. All that I have learned I got from a
friendly native in the yard of our own inn. It was he
who told me of the doctor's habits and of his daily
journey. At that instant, to give point to his words,
the carriage came round to the door."
"Could you not follow it?"
"Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this
evening. The idea did cross my mind. There is, as
you may have obse
rved, a bicycle shop next to our inn.
Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to
get started before the carriage was quite out of
sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a
discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed
its lights until we were clear of the town. We had
got well out on the country road when a somewhat
mortifying incident occurred. The carriage stopped,
the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I
had also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic
fashion that he feared the road was narrow, and that
he hoped his carriage did not impede the passage of my
bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable than
his way of putting it. I at once rode past the
carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for
a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place to
see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of it,
however, and so it became evident that it had turned
down one of several side roads which I had observed.
I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage,
and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me.
Of course, I had at the outset no particular reason to
connect these journeys with the disappearance of
Godfrey Staunton, and was only inclined to investigate
them on the general grounds that everything which
concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to
us; but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out
upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions,
the affair appears more important, and I shall not be
satisfied until I have made the matter clear."
"We can follow him to-morrow."
"Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You
are not familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you?
It does not lend itself to concealment. All this
country that I passed over to-night is as flat and
clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are
following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any
fresh London developments at this address, and in the
meantime we can only concentrate our attention upon
Dr. Armstrong, whose name the obliging young lady at
the office allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of
Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the young
man is -- to that I'll swear -- and if he knows, then
it must be our own fault if we cannot manage to know
also. At present it must be admitted that the odd
trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware,
Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in that
condition."
And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the
solution of the mystery. A note was handed in after
breakfast, which Holmes passed across to me with a smile.
"Sir," it ran, "I can assure you that you are wasting
your time in dogging my movements. I have, as you
discovered last night, a window at the back of my
brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which
will lead you to the spot from which you started, you
have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you
that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey
Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you
can do to that gentleman is to return at once to
London and to report to your employer that you are
unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge will
certainly be wasted.
"Yours faithfully,
"LESLIE ARMSTRONG."
"An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said
Holmes. "Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I
must really know more before I leave him."
"His carriage is at his door now," said I. "There he
is stepping into it. I saw him glance up at our
window as he did so. Suppose I try my luck upon the
bicycle?"
"No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your
natural acumen I do not think that you are quite a
match for the worthy doctor. I think that possibly I
can attain our end by some independent explorations of
my own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own
devices, as the appearance of _two_ inquiring
strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more
gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some
sights to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope
to bring back a more favourable report to you before
evening."
Once more, however, my friend was destined to be
disappointed. He came back at night weary and
unsuccessful.
"I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the
doctor's general direction, I spent the day in
visiting all the villages upon that side of Cambridge,
and comparing notes with publicans and other local
news agencies. I have covered some ground:
Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have
each been explored and have each proved disappointing.
The daily appearance of a brougham and pair could
hardly have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows.
The doctor has scored once more. Is there a telegram
for me?"
"Yes; I opened it. Here it is: 'Ask for Pompey from
Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.' I don't understand
it."
"Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend
Overton, and is in answer to a question from me.
I'll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon,
and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?"
"Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account
in its last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two
tries. The last sentences of the description say:
'The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely
attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack
International, Godfrey Staunton, whose want was felt
at every instant of the game. The lack of combination
in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts
of a heavy and hard-working pack.'"
"Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been
justified," said Holmes. "Personally I am in
agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football does not
come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an
eventful day."
I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next
morning, for he sat by the fire holding his tiny
hypodermic syringe. I associated that instrument with
the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the
worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He
laughed at my expression of dismay, and laid it upon
the table.
"No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm.
It is not upon this occasion the instrument of evil,
but it will rather prove to be the key
which will
unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my
hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting
expedition and everything is favourable. Eat a good
breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr.
Armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it I will not
stop for rest or food until I run him to his burrow."
"In that case," said I, "we had best carry our
breakfast with us, for he is making an early start.
His carriage is at the door."
"Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can
drive where I cannot follow him. When you have
finished come downstairs with me, and I will introduce
you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in
the work that lies before us."
When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable
yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led
out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something
between a beagle and a foxhound.
"Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he. "Pompey is
the pride of the local draghounds, no very great
flier, as his build will show, but a staunch hound on
a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but I
expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the
liberty of fastening this leather leash to your
collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you can
do." He led him across to the doctor's door. The dog
sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill
whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In
half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening
down a country road.
"What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.
"A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon
occasion. I walked into the doctor's yard this
morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed over the
hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from here
to John o' Groat's, and our friend Armstrong would
have to drive through the Cam before he would shake
Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This
is how he gave me the slip the other night."
The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into
a grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened
into another broad road, and the trail turned hard to
the right in the direction of the town, which we had
just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of
the town and continued in the opposite direction to
that in which we started.
"This _detour_ {2} has been entirely for our benefit,
then?" said Holmes. "No wonder that my inquiries
among those villages led to nothing. The doctor has
certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one
would like to know the reason for such elaborate
deception. This should be the village of Trumpington
to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the
brougham coming round the corner. Quick, Watson,
quick, or we are done!"
He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the
reluctant Pompey after him. We had hardly got under
the shelter of the hedge when the carriage rattled
past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his
shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very
image of distress. I could tell by my companion's
graver face that he also had seen.
"I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said
he. "It cannot be long before we know it. Come,
Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage in the field!"
There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of
our journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly
outside the gate where the marks of the brougham's
wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across
to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the
hedge, and we hastened onwards. My friend knocked at
the little rustic door, and knocked again without
response. And yet the cottage was not deserted,
for a low sound came to our ears -- a kind of drone
of misery and despair, which was indescribably
melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he
glanced back at the road which we had just traversed.
A brougham was coming down it, and there could be no
mistaking those grey horses.
"By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes.