again this afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her face, and glided from the room.
"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.
"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."
"Dark enough, and sinister enough."
"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end."
"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?"
"I cannot think."
"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old Doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the Doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars which secured the shutters falling back into their place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines."
"But what, then, did the gipsies do?"
"I cannot imagine."
"I see many objections to any such theory."
"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what, in the name of the devil!"
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top hat, a long frock coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, scared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high thin fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.
"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.
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"which of you is holmes?"
"My name, sir, but you have the advantage of me," said my companion, quietly.
"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."
"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes, blandly. "Pray take a seat."
"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saving to you?"
"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.
"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.
"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my companion imperturbably.
