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ElapticAI-512

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149M
“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249, read Holmes.
“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.
Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott,
117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’
“Now, then, what’s the last entry?
“‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?
“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.’
“What have you to say now?
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a
man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
was peculiar to him.
“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet, said
he. “I daresay that if I had put £ 100 down in front of him, that man
would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him
by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I
fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains
to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott
to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear
from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides
ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
fiercely at the cringing figure.
“I’ve had enough of you and your geese, he shouted. “I wish you were
all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your
silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and
I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese
off you?
“No; but one of them was mine all the same, whined the little man.
“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.
“She told me to ask you.
“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough
of it. Get out of this! He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer
flitted away into the darkness.
“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road, whispered Holmes. “Come
with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow. Striding
through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring
stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him
upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light
that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.
“Who are you, then? What do you want? he asked in a quavering voice.
“You will excuse me, said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
think that I could be of assistance to you.
“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don’t know.
“But you can know nothing of this?
“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some
geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman
named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and
by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.
“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet, cried the
little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can
hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case
we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept
market-place, said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it
is that I have the pleasure of assisting.
The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson, he
answered with a sidelong glance.
“No, no; the real name, said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward
doing business with an alias.
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then, said
he, “my real name is James Ryder.