of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”
“So much for the Daily Chronicle,” said Holmes, as I finished reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in which he says: ‘I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco, and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours to spare, I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.’ What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat, and run down to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”
“I was longing for something to do.”
“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots, and tell them to order a cab. I’ll be back in a moment, when I have changed my dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”
A shower of rain fell while we were in the
