LITMIR.BIZ

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to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

      “So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes, when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”

      “Not particularly.”

      “Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper, and follow up this clew while it is still hot.”

      “By all means.”

      It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the Doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the “Alpha Inn,” which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar, and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

      “Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he.

      “My geese!” The man seemed surprised.

      “Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.”

      “Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our geese.”

      “Indeed! Whose, then?”

      “Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”

      “Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”

      “Breckinridge is his name.”

      “Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health, landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night?”

      “Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat, as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson, that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!”

      We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor, a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers, was helping a boy to put up the shutters.

      “Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.

      The salesman nodded, and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

      “Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.

      “Let you have 500 to-morrow morning.”

      “That’s no good.”

      “Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”

      “Ah, but I was recommended to you.”

      “Who by?”

      “The landlord of the ‘Alpha.’”

      “Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”

      “Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”

      To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.

      “Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”

      “It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the ‘Alpha.’”

      “Well, then, I sha’n’t tell you. So now!”

      “Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.”

      “Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.”

      “Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes, carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.”

      “Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman.

      “It’s nothing of the kind.”

      “I say it is.”

      “I don’t believe it.”

      “D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the ‘Alpha’ were town bred.”

      “You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”

      “Will you bet, then?”

      “It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”

      The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.

      The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

      “Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?”

      “Well?”

      “That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”

      “Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.

      “Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”

      Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”

      “Now, then, what’s the last entry?”

      “‘December 22. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’”

      “Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”

      “‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the ‘Alpha,’ at 12s.’”

      “What have you to say now?”

      Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post, and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.

      “When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘pink ‘un’ protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I dare say that if I had put £100 down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that

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