Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manœuvres of their amateur companion with

considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate

the fact, which I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions

were all directed towards some definite and practical end.

 

“What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.

 

“It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume to help

you,” remarked my friend. “You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for

anyone to interfere.” There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If

you will let me know how your investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be

happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the

constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?”

 

Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “John Rance,” he said. “He is off duty now.

You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

 

Holmes took a note of the address.

 

“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “we shall go and look him up. I’ll tell you one

thing which may help you in the case,” he continued, turning to the two

detectives. “There has been murder done, and the murderer was a man. He was more

than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height,

wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here