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There I halted on my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative.

No, I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer.

I was just too late.

It had been let about a month ago.

Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant.

He was a respectable elderly gentleman.

The polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of his clients were not matters which he could discuss.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued.

On the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not.

"Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty.

You should have been behind the hedge; then you would have had a close view of this interesting person.

As it is you were some hundreds of yards away, and can tell me even less than Miss Smith.

She thinks she does not know the man; I am convinced she does.

Why, otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as bending over the handle-bar.

Concealment again, you see.

You really have done remarkably badly.

He returns to the house and you want to find out who he is.

You come to a London house-agent!"

"What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat.

"Gone to the nearest public-house.

That is the centre of country gossip.

They would have told you every name, from the master to the scullery-maid.

Williamson! It conveys nothing to my mind.

If he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that athletic young lady's pursuit.

What have we gained by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl's story is true.

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