I can't afford, therefore, to smile at your three broken busts,
Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will
let me hear of any fresh developments of so singular a chain
of events."
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker
and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined.
I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was
a tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand.
He read it aloud:--
"Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington. -- Lestrade."
"What is it, then?" I asked.
"Don't know -- may be anything. But I suspect it is the
sequel of the story of the statues. In that case our friend,
the image-breaker, has begun operations in another quarter of
London. There's coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab
at the door."
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London
life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,
and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up we found the
railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd.
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