, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that was the
start of it."

"Thank you, Miss Cushing," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Your sister
Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington? Good-bye, and
I am very sorry that you 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 driver 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 Sarah 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