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I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a
laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!"

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that
showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

"Get your hat," he said.

"You wish me to come?"

"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we
were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung
over the house-tops, looking like the reflection of the
mud-coloured streets beneath. My companion was in the best
of spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles, and the
difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for
myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy
business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,"
I said at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

"No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize
before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with
my finger; "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house,
if I am not very much mistaken."

"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards
or so from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we
finished our journey upon foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look.
It was one of four which stood back some little way from the
street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked
out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were
blank and dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card had
developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden
sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants
separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed
by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting
apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place
was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night.
The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe
of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a
stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope
of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have
hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the
mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention.
With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances,
seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and
down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky,
the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having
finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path,
or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path,

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