rattled, and never drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped

off before we came to the door, and strolled down the street in an easy,

lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him open

the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he

was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to the finest

assorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace

of his passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare. On

inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to a respectable

paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or

Dennis had ever been heard of there.”

 

“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement, “that that tottering, feeble old

woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion, without either you

or the driver seeing her?”

 

“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “We were the old women to

be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an active one, too, besides

being an incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he was

followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip. It shows that the

man we are after is not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are

ready to risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my

advice and turn in.”

 

I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I left Holmes

seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the night