At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the
air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least
there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring
and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in
the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his
eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.
Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed
over the meadows.
Look there! said he.
A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into
a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out
the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.
Stoke Moran? said he.
Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, remarked the
driver.
There is some building going on there, said Holmes; that is where we
are going.
There s the village, said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs
some distance to the left; but if you want to get to the house, you ll
find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the
fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.
And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner, observed Holmes, shading his
eyes. Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.
We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
Leatherhead.
I thought it as well, said Holmes as we climbed the stile, that this
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