elapt1c/ElapticAI-512 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 149M
station.

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam, said he, smiling. “The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand
side of the driver.

“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct, said she. “I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little
aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from
her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could
help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,
with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find
me ungrateful.

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.

“Farintosh, said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with
an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I
did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put
to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay
before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.

“Alas! replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in
the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing
answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may
advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.

“I am all attention, madam.

“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.

Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me, said he.

“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin
was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.
Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a
fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term
of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.

“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of
my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less
than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum
should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly
after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live
with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my
mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no
obstacle to our happiness.

“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in
the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came
out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his
path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in
the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe,
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,
until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would
fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

station.

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my

companion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam, said he, smiling. “The left arm

of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The

marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which

throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand

side of the driver.

“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct, said she. “I

started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and

came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no

longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,

save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little

aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.

Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from

her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could

help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense

darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward

you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,

with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find

me ungrateful.

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small

case-book, which he consulted.

“Farintosh, said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with

an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,

madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I

did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own

reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put

to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay

before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the

matter.

“Alas! replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in

the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so

entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that

even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and

advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a

nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing

answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can

see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may

advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.

“I am all attention, madam.

“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is

the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the

Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.

Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me, said he.

“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the

estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and

Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive

heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin

was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.

Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the

two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy

mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the

horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my

stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,

obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a

medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional

skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a

fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been

perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and

narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term

of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and

disappointed man.

“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the

young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister

Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of

my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less

than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely

while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum

should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly

after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years

ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his

attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live

with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my

mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no

obstacle to our happiness.

“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.

Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,

who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in

the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came

out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his

path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in

the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe,

been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of

disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,

until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would

fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and

absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.