I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned, grave, preoccupied and aloof. At such times it was wiser to leave him to himself.
“Has Amberley been here yet?”
“No.”
“Ah! I am expecting him.”
He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.
“I’ve had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it.” He handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.
“Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your recent loss—Elman. The Vicarage.”
“Dispatched at two-ten from Little Purlington,” said Holmes. “Little Purlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes, here we have him. J. C. Elman, M.A., Living of Mossmoor cum Little Purlington. Look up the trains, Watson.”
“There is one at five-twenty from Liverpool Street.”
“Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair.”
But our client seemed by no means eager to start.
“It’s perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “What can this man possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and money.”
“He would not have telegraphed to you if he did
