Halloa! halloa! halloa! What's this?"
Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
horse's hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
the kerb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.
"What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.
"Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to
fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off again!
There's hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted us to come.
Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous
folk have been long in bed."
When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor
I had no difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley
Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
several times shown a very practical interest.
"Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.
"Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above.
"I hope you have no designs upon us on such a night as this."
The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
shining waterproof.
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