THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
by Arthur Conan Doyle
Contents
I.
Silver Blaze
I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we sat downtogether to our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already beenmixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one topic of conversationthrough the length and breadth of England. For a whole day my companion hadrambled about the room with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted,charging and recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, andabsolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions of everypaper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be glanced over and tosseddown into a corner. Yet, silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it wasover which he was brooding. There was but one problem before the public whichcould challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular disappearanceof the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer.When, therefore, he suddenly announced his intention of setting out for thescene of the drama it was only what I had both expected and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the way,”said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming. And I thinkthat your time will not be misspent, for there are points about the case whichpromise to make it an absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time tocatch our train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon ourjourney. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very excellentfield-glass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the corner of afirst-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes,with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dippedrapidly into the bundle of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. Wehad left Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under theseat, and offered me his cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing at his watch.“Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour.”
“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.
“Nor have I. But the te