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"I could mention several.

You must admit that it is curious and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success of the side.

It may, of course, be coincidence, but it is interesting.

Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse.

There is one explanation.

A second very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great property, however modest his means may at present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted."

"These theories take no account of the telegram."

"Quite true, Watson.

The telegram still remains the only solid thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to wander away from it.

It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge.

The path of our investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not cleared it up or made a considerable advance along it."

It was already dark when we reached the old University city.

Holmes took a cab at the station, and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong.

A few minutes later we had stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare.

We were shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me.

Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the University, but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science.

Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw.

A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable - so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong.

He held my friend's card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

"I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your profession, one of which I by no means approve."

"In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.

"So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose.

Where your calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself.

At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing with you."

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