Adventure of the Cardboard Box. Arthur Conan Doyle

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      “So much for the Daily Chronicle,” said Holmes as I finished reading. "Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in which he says:

      “I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.

      “What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”

      “I was longing for something to do.”

      “You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”

      A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

      It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside her.

      “They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away altogether.”

      “So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend, Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”

      “Why in my presence, sir?”

      “In case he wished to ask any questions.”

      “What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know nothing whatever about it?”