should have been troubled over a
case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do."

There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

"How far to Wallington?" he asked.

"Only about a mile, sir."

"Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot.
Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive
details in connection with it. Just pull up at a telegraph office as
you pass, cabby."

Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay back in
the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun from his
face. Our drive pulled up at a house which was not unlike the one which
we had just quitted. My companion ordered him to wait, and had his
hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave young gentleman
in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.

"Is Miss Cushing at home?" asked Holmes.

"Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill," said he. "She has been
suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. As her
medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of allowing
anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call again in ten days."
He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off down the street.

"Well, if we can't we can't," said Holmes, cheerfully.

"Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much."

"I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at her.
However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us to some
decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and afterwards we
shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the police-station."

We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would talk
about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how he had
purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five hundred
guineas, at a Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road for fifty-five
shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an hour over a
bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote of that
extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced and the hot glare
had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at the
police-station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.

"A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes," said he.

"Ha! It is the answer!" He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it,
and crumpled it into his pocket. "That's all right," said he.

"Have you found out anything?"