elapt1c/ElapticAI-512 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 149M
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard
the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in
animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter
Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin,
sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.

“Ha! Our party is complete, said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.

“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see, said Jones in his
consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir, said the
police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he
won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say
that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the
Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official
force.

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right, said the stranger with
deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first
Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my
rubber.

“I think you will find, said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for
a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play
will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be
some £ 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
wish to lay your hands.

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man,
Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a
remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as
his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never
know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with
you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,
and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,
Watson and I will follow in the second.

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farrington Street.

“We are close there now, my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather
is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought
it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though
an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He
is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his
claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a
lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was
piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above, Holmes remarked as he held up
the lantern and gazed about him.

“Nor from below, said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow! he
remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet! said Holmes
severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon
the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine
minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to
satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his
pocket.

“We have at least an hour before us, he remarked, “for they can hardly
take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way

across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two

hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard

the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in

animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter

Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin,

sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable

frock-coat.

“Ha! Our party is complete, said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket

and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you

know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.

Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.

“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see, said Jones in his

consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a

chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,

observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir, said the

police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he

won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,

but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say

that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the

Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official

force.

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right, said the stranger with

deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first

Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my

rubber.

“I think you will find, said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for

a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play

will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be

some £ 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you

wish to lay your hands.

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man,

Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would

rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a

remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,

and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as

his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never

know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one

week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.

I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve

had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with

you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,

and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,

Watson and I will follow in the second.

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and

lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the

afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets

until we emerged into Farrington Street.

“We are close there now, my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather

is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought

it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though

an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He

is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his

claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found

ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the

guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and

through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small

corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was

opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated

at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a

lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and

so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was

piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above, Holmes remarked as he held up

the lantern and gazed about him.

“Nor from below, said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the

flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow! he

remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet! said Holmes

severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our

expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down

upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very

injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon

the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine

minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to

satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his

pocket.

“We have at least an hour before us, he remarked, “for they can hardly

take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they