good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines."
"But what, then, did the gypsies do?"
"I cannot imagine."
"I see many objections to any such theory."
"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.
"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.
"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion, quietly.
"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."
"Indeed, doctor," said Holmes, blandly. "Pray take a seat."
"I will do nothing of the kind. My step-daughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"
"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.
"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man, furiously.
"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my companion, imperturbably.
"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor,
