“You are a good fellow,” said he.  “I had misjudged you.  I thank heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make your acquaintance.  Knowing as much as you do, the situation is very easily explained.  A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time and became passionately attached to his landlady’s daughter, whom he married.  She was as good as she was beautiful and as intelligent as she was good.  No man need be ashamed of such a wife.  But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his marriage would have been the end of his inheritance.  I knew the lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities.  I did all I could to help him to keep things straight.  We did our very best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.  Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has up to now succeeded.  Their secret was known to no one save to me and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for assistance to Trumpington.  But at last there came a terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife.  It was consumption of the most virulent kind.  The poor boy was half crazed with grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he could not get out of it without explanations which would expose his secret.  I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent me one in reply, imploring me to do all I could.  This was the telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen.  I did not tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl’s father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey.  The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings.  That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your friend.”

Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand.

“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief into the pale sunlight of the winter day.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of the winter of ’97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder.  It was Holmes.  The candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was amiss.

“Come, Watson, come!” he cried.  “The game is afoot.  Not a word!  Into your clothes and come!”

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station.  The first faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek.  Holmes nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken our fast.