Then he went downstairs,
said a few words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the
two of them went off together. The last that the porter saw of
them, they were almost running down the street in the direction
of the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed
had never been slept in, and his things were all just as I had
seen them the night before. He had gone off at a moment's notice
with this stranger, and no word has come from him since. I don't
believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey,
down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his training and
let in his skipper if it were not for some cause that was too
strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone for good and we
should never see him again."
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard
of him there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."
"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"
"Yes, there is a late train -- quarter-past eleven."
"But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?"
"No, he has not been seen.
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