down the long avenue, with two splendid, high-stepping grey carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane in the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.
The carriage had slowed to a walk and I was able to get a good look at the occupants. A highly-coloured young woman with flaxen hair and impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person with rounded back and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders which proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the high road I held up my hand with an authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.
At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With a joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the step. Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it snapped at the black skirt above it.
“Drive on! Drive on!” shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.
“Well, Watson, that’s done it,” said Holmes, as he fastened the lead to the neck of the excited spaniel. “He thought it was his mistress and he found it was a stranger. Dogs don’t make mistakes.”
“But it was the voice of a man!” I cried.
“Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs careful playing, all the same.”
My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did actually use our fishing tackle
