His hands were raised and he seemed to be settling his necktie.
Then he mounted his cycle and rode away from me down the drive
towards the Hall. I ran across the heath and peered through the
trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old grey building
with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a
dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.
However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning's
work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local
house-agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and
referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted
on my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative.
No, I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer.
I was just too late. It had been let about a month ago.
Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable
elderly gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no
more, as the affairs of his clients were not matters which he
could discuss.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report
which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not
elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should
have valued.
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