"This set of
rooms is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual
for visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally
conduct you."
"No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's
door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some
really curious pieces of mediaeval domestic architecture within.
Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on
drawing it on his note-book, broke his pencil, had to borrow one
from our host, and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own.
The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the
Indian -- a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us
askance and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural
studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either
case Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching.
Only at the third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door
would not open to our knock, and nothing more substantial than
a torrent of bad language came from behind it. "I don't care
who you are. You can go to blazes!" roared the angry voice.
Pages:
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365