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 Gregson, whose features expressed his

astonishment.

 

A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices. Two

doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously

been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which was the

apartment in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I

followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of death

inspires.