He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
“If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop, you would have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”
“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”
“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the mystery of Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age, dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognised him at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins' brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.
“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”
“And what had you to report?”
“"Failure, sir, absolute failure."”
“You have made no progress?”
“None.”
“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”
“I wish to Heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first big chance, and I am at my wits' end. For goodness' sake, come down and lend me a hand.”
”Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with
