My geese! The man seemed surprised.
Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was
a member of your goose club.
Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them s not _our_ geese.
Indeed! Whose, then?
Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.
Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?
Breckinridge is his name.
Ah! I don t know him. Well, here s your good health landlord, and
prosperity to your house. Good-night.
Now for Mr. Breckinridge, he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
came out into the frosty air. Remember, Watson that though we have so
homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
other a man who will certainly get seven years penal servitude unless
we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but
confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation
which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has
placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to
the south, then, and quick march!
We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man,
with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up
the shutters.
Good-evening. It s a cold night, said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.
Sold out of geese, I see, continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
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