Holmes's knowledge of the byways of
London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly,
and with an assured step, through a network of mews and stables
the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at
last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led
us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he
turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back
door of a house. We entered together and he closed it behind us.
The place was pitch-dark, but it was evident to me that it was
an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the
paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers
closed round my wrist and led me forwards down a long hall,
until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes
turned suddenly to the right, and we found ourselves in a large,
square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly
lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was
no lamp near and the window was thick with dust, so that we could
only just discern each other's figures within.
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