Therefore I blessed this
Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he had come with his
enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which brought more
peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its
sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College,
Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man,
sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway
with his broad shoulders and looked from one of us to the other
with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My companion bowed.
"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes.
I saw Inspector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you.
He said the case, so far as he could see, was more in your line
than in that of the regular police."
"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."
"It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey.
Godfrey Staunton -- you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the
hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the
pack and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line.
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