The man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end
parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken; but who
he was or what he wanted was as obscure as ever. It was the
severity of Holmes's manner and the fact that he slipped a
revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which
impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to
lurk behind this curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered country-side with the glowing clumps of flowering
gorse seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of
the duns and drabs and slate-greys of London. Holmes and I
walked along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning
air, and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh
breath of the spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder
of Crooksbury Hill we could see the grim Hall bristling out from
amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still
younger than the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed
down the long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band,
between the brown of the heath and the budding green of the
woods.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172