geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman
named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and
by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.
Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet, cried the
little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. I can
hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. In that case
we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept
market-place, said he. But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it
is that I have the pleasure of assisting.
The man hesitated for an instant. My name is John Robinson, he
answered with a sidelong glance.
No, no; the real name, said Holmes sweetly. It is always awkward
doing business with an alias.
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. Well then, said
he, my real name is James Ryder.
Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into
the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you
would wish to know.
The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into
the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker
Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin
breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of
his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.
Here we are! said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. The
fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
became of those geese?
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