ar where poor heidegger met his death."
"exactly. well, now, watson, how many cows did you see on
the moor?"
"i don't remember seeing any."
"strange, watson, that we should see tracks all along our
line, but never a cow on the whole moor; very strange,
watson, eh?"
"yes, it is strange."
"now, watson, make an effort; throw your mind back! can
you see those tracks upon the path?"
"yes, i can."
"can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, watson"
-- he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion --
: : : : : -- "and sometimes like this" -- : ' : ' : ' : ' --
"and occasionally like this" -- . ' . ' . ' . "can you remember
that?" {2}
"no, i cannot."
"but i can. i could swear to it. however, we will go back
at our leisure and verify it. what a blind beetle i have
been not to draw my conclusion!"
"and what is your conclusion?"
"only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters,
and gallops. by george, watson, it was no brain of a country
publican that thought out such a blind as that!
the coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in the smithy.
let us slip out and see what we can see."
there were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the
tumble-down stable. holmes raised the hind leg of one of
them and laughed aloud.
"old shoes, but newly shod -- old shoes, but new nails.
this case deserves to be a classic. let us go across
to the smithy."
the lad continued his work without regarding us.
i saw holmes's eye darting to right and left among the
litter of iron and wood which was scattered about the floor.
suddenly, however, we heard a step behind us, and there was
the landlord, his heavy eyebrows drawn over his savage eyes,
his swarthy features convulsed with passion. he held a short,
metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in
so menacing a fashion that i was right glad to feel the
revolver in my pocket.
"you infernal spies!" the man cried. "what are you doing
there?"
"why, mr. reuben hayes," said holmes, coolly, "one might
think that you were afraid of our finding something out."
the man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his
grim mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more
menacing than his frown.
"you're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said he.
"but look here, mister, i don't care for folk poking about my
place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and
get out of this the better i shall be pleased."
"all right, mr. hayes -- no harm meant," said holmes.
"we have been having a look at your horses, but i think i'll
walk after all. it's not far, i believe."
"not more than two miles to the hall gates. that's the
road to the left." he watched us with sullen eyes until we
had left his premises.
we did not go very far along the road, for holmes stopped
the instant that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.
"we were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he.
"i seem to grow colder every step that i take away from it.
no, no; i can't possibly leave it."
"i am convinced," said i, "that this reuben hayes knows all
about it. a more self-evident villain i never saw."
"oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? there are the
horses, there is the smithy. yes, it is an interesting
place, this fighting cock. i think we shall have another
look at it in an unobtrusive way."
a long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone
boulders, stretched behind us. we had turned off the road,
and were making our way up the hill, when, looking in the
direction of holdernesse hall, i saw a cyclist coming
swiftly along.
"get down, watson!" cried holmes, with a heavy hand upon my
shoulder. we had hardly sunk from view when the man flew
past us on the road. amid a rolling cloud of dust i caught
a glimpse of a pale, agitated face -- a face with horror in
every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in
front. it was like some strange caricature of the dapper
james wilder whom we had seen the night before.
"the duke's secretary!" cried holmes. "come, watson,
let us see what he does."
we scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we
had made our way to a point from which we could see the
front door of the inn. wilder's bicycle was leaning
against the wall beside it. no one was moving about the
house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the
windows. slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank
behind the high towers of holdernesse hall. then in the
gloom we saw the two side-lamps of a trap light up in the
stable yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards heard the
rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore
off at a furious pace in the direction of chesterfield.
"what do you make of that, watson?" holmes whispered.
"it looks like a flight."
"a single man in a dog-cart, so far as
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