And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming
round the corner. Quick, Watson, quick, or we are done!"
He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the
reluctant Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter
of the hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse
of Dr. Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on
his hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my
companion's graver face that he also had seen.
"I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said he.
"It cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey!
Ah, it is the cottage in the field!"
There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate
where the marks of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen.
A footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog
to the hedge, and we hastened onwards. My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears --
a kind of drone of misery and despair, which was indescribably
melancholy.
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