The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (Wisehouse Classics Edition - With Original Illustrations by Sidney Paget). Arthur Conan Doyle

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      “Oh, no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I change it first or not?”

      Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,” said he, “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”

      “Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

      “Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.

      “A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we trudged along together.

      “He has the horse, then?”

      “He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the white forehead which has given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”

      “But his stables had been searched?”

      “Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

      “But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now since he has every interest in injuring it?”

      “My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”

      “Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to show much mercy in any case.”

      “The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own methods and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed it, Watson, but the colonel’s manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”

      “Certainly not without your permission.”

      “And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the question of who killed John Straker.”

      “And you will devote yourself to that?”

      “On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”

      I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at the trainer’s house. The colonel and the inspector were awaiting us in the parlour.

      “My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful Dartmoor air.”

      The inspector opened his eyes, and the colonel’s lip curled in a sneer. “So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said he.

      Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however, that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John Straker?”

      The inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

      “My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should like to put to the maid.”

      “I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London consultant,” said Colonel Ross bluntly as my friend left the room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”

      “At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said I.

      “Yes, I have his assurance,” said the colonel with a shrug of his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”

      I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he entered the room again.

      “Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”

      As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

      “You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to them?”

      “I do, sir.”

      “Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”

      “Well, sir, not of much account, but three of them have gone lame, sir.”

      I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and rubbed his hands together.

      “A long shot, Watson, a very long shot,” said he, pinching my arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”

      Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw by the inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly aroused.

      “You consider that to be important?” he asked.

      “Exceedingly so.”

      “Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”

      “To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

      “The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

      “That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

      Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner was cold in the extreme.

      “I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.

      “I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked Holmes.

      The colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty years and never was asked such a question as that before,” said he. “A child would know Silver Blaze with his white forehead and his mottled off-foreleg.”

      “How is the betting?”

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