“How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?” said Holmes.
“Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?” the countryman answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.
“Well, it's printed on the board above your head. It's easy to see a man who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven't such a thing as a carriage in your stables?”
“No, I have not.”
“I can hardly put my foot to the ground.”
“Don't put it to the ground.”
“But I can't walk.”
“Well, then, hop.”
Mr. Reuben Hayes' manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took it with admirable good-humour.
“Look here my man,” said he. “This is really rather an awkward fix for me. I don't mind how I get on.”
“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.
“The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for the use of a bicycle.”
The landlord pricked up his ears.
“Where do you want to go?”
“To Holdernesse Hall.”
“Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord, surveying our mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.
Holmes laughed good naturedly.
“He'll be glad to see us, anyhow.”
“Why?”
“Because we bring him news of his lost son.”
The landlord gave a very visible start.
“What, you're on his track?”
