can spare the time, Watson, we will get upon our way.”
A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped grassland. Three small projections above the upper windows made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.
“I remember your husband well, madam,” said Holmes, “though it is some years since he used my services in some trifling matter.”
“Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son Douglas.”
Holmes looked at her with great interest.
“Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him slightly. But, of course, all London knew him. What a magnificent creature he was! Where is he now?”
“Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was Attaché at Rome, and he died there of pneumonia last month.”
“I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely—every fibre of him!”
“Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember him as he was—debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody, morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was
