all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”

 

“You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger; “this is

the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken.”

 

“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a hundred yards or so from it, but

he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon foot.

 

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was one of

four which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied and

two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows,

which were blank and dreary, save that here and there a “To Let” card had

developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over

with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from

the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and

consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was

very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was

bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and

against 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