"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know."
"But you can know nothing of this?"
"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavoring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the 'Alpha,' and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."
"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the little fellow, with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that case we had better discuss it in a cosey room rather than in this windswept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."
The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he answered, with a sidelong glance.
"No, no; the real name," said Holmes, sweetly. "It is always awkward doing business with an alias."
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well, then," said he, " my real name is James Ryder."
"Precisely so. Head attendant at the 'Hotel Cosmopolitan.' Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know."
The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.
"Here we are!" said Holmes, cheerily, as we filed into the room. "The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You
