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Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




Adventure I


Silver Blaze


"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said
Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast one
morning.

"Go! Where to?"

"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."

I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that
he had not already been mixed up in this extraordinary
case, which was the one topic of conversation through
the length and breadth of England. For a whole day my
companion had rambled about the room with his chin
upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and
recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco,
and absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks.
Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our
news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down
into a corner. Yet, silent as he was, I knew
perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding.
There was but one problem before the public which
could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was
the singular disappearance of the favorite for the
Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer.
When, therefore, he suddenly announced his intention
of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.

"I should be most happy to go down with you if I
should not be in the way," said I.

"My dear Watson, you would confer a great favor upon
me by coming. And I think that your time will not be
misspent, for there are points about the case which
promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We have,
I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington,
and I will go further into the matter upon our
journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you
your very excellent field-glass."

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found
myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying
along en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with
his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped
travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of
fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We
had left Reading far behind us before he thrust the
last one of them under the seat, and offered me his
cigar-case.

"We are going well," said he, looking out the window
and glancing at his watch. "Our rate at present is
fifty-three and a half miles an hour."

"I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.

"Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line
are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a simple
one. I presume that you have looked into this matter
of the murder of John Straker and the disappearance of
Silver Blaze?"

"I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have
to say."

"It is one of those cases where the art of the
reasoner should be used rather for the sifting of
details than for the acquiring of fresh evidence. The
tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of such
personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and

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