rable. eat a good
breakfast, watson, for i propose to get upon dr.
armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it i will not
stop for rest or food until i run him to his burrow."
"in that case," said i, "we had best carry our
breakfast with us, for he is making an early start.
his carriage is at the door."
"never mind. let him go. he will be clever if he can
drive where i cannot follow him. when you have
finished come downstairs with me, and i will introduce
you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in
the work that lies before us."
when we descended i followed holmes into the stable
yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led
out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something
between a beagle and a foxhound.
"let me introduce you to pompey," said he. "pompey is
the pride of the local draghounds, no very great
flier, as his build will show, but a staunch hound on
a scent. well, pompey, you may not be fast, but i
expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged london gentlemen, so i will take the
liberty of fastening this leather leash to your
collar. now, boy, come along, and show what you can
do." he led him across to the doctor's door. the dog
sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill
whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. in
half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening
down a country road.
"what have you done, holmes?" i asked.
"a threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon
occasion. i walked into the doctor's yard this
morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed over the
hind wheel. a draghound will follow aniseed from here
to john o' groat's, and our friend armstrong would
have to drive through the cam before he would shake
pompey off his trail. oh, the cunning rascal! this
is how he gave me the slip the other night."
the dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into
a grass-grown lane. half a mile farther this opened
into another broad road, and the trail turned hard to
the right in the direction of the town, which we had
just quitted. the road took a sweep to the south of
the town and continued in the opposite direction to
that in which we started.
"this _detour_ {2} has been entirely for our benefit,
then?" said holmes. "no wonder that my inquiries
among those villages led to nothing. the doctor has
certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one
would like to know the reason for such elaborate
deception. this should be the village of trumpington
to the right of us. and, by jove! here is the
brougham coming round the corner. quick, watson,
quick, or we are done!"
he sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the
reluctant pompey after him. we had hardly got under
the shelter of the hedge when the carriage rattled
past. i caught a glimpse of dr. armstrong within, his
shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very
image of distress. i could tell by my companion's
graver face that he also had seen.
"i fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said
he. "it cannot be long before we know it. come,
pompey! ah, it is the cottage in the field!"
there could be no doubt that we had reached the end of
our journey. pompey ran about and whined eagerly
outside the gate where the marks of the brougham's
wheels were still to be seen. a footpath led across
to the lonely cottage. holmes tied the dog to the
hedge, and we hastened onwards. my friend knocked at
the little rustic door, and knocked again without
response. and yet the cottage was not deserted,
for a low sound came to our ears -- a kind of drone
of misery and despair, which was indescribably
melancholy. holmes paused irresolute, and then he
glanced back at the road which we had just traversed.
a brougham was coming down it, and there could be no
mistaking those grey horses.
"by jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried holmes.
"that settles it. we are bound to see what it means
before he comes."
he opened the door and we stepped into the hall. the
droning sound swelled louder upon our ears until it
became one long, deep wail of distress. it came from
upstairs. holmes darted up and i followed him. he
pushed open a half-closed door and we both stood
appalled at the sight before us.
a woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the
bed. her calm, pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue
eyes, looked upwards from amid a great tangle of
golden hair. at the foot of the bed, half sitting,
half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes,
was a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs.
so absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he never
looked up until holmes's hand was on his shoulder.
"are you mr. godfrey staunton?"
"yes, yes; i am -- but you are too late. she is dead."
the man was
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