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“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have followed her. What has she said to you?”

“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.

“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before.”

My friend smiled.

“Your words are most pleasant,” said he. “When you go out close the door, for the open door makes the room cold.”

“I will go when I have said what I want. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I followed her! I am a dangerous man! See here.”

He took the poker, and bent it with his very strong hands.

“Keep yourself out of my grip,” he said, threw the poker, and went out of the room.

“He seems a very friendly person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not so big, but my grip is as strong as his own.” He took the poker and straightened it out again.

“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter.”

It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned home. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, covered with notes.

“I have seen the will of Miss Stoner’s mother,” said he. “The income is now not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can have an income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage. It is clear, therefore, that if both girls had married, our pleasant visitor would have had very little left, even one marriage would take a lot of money from him. He has the strongest motives for preventing his stepdaughters’ marriage. And now, Watson, this is very serious and we must hurry, as the old man knows of our interest in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. And remember to take your revolver with you. It is a good argument with gentlemen who can bend pokers.”

At Waterloo we took a train for Leatherhead, the station nearest to Stoke Moran, where we got into a cab and drove for four or five miles to our client’s house. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few clouds in the sky. The trees were just throwing out their first green leaves, and the air was full of the pleasant smell. To me there was a strange contrast between the beautiful spring day and the tragic event we had arrived to investigate. My companion sat in the cab, his hat pulled down over his eyes, lost in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he pointed to the left.

“Look there!” said he.

I saw a park with a very old house in it.

“Stoke Moran?” said he.

“Yes, sir, that is the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” answered the driver.

“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to some houses to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll find a road over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”