"
The development for which my friend had asked came in a
quicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have
imagined. I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning,
when there was a tap at the door and Holmes entered, a
telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:
"Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.
"LESTRADE.
"What is it, then?" I asked.
"Don't know -- may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel
of the story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-
breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.
There's coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the
door."
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life.
No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and
most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the rail-
ings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes
whistled.
"By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less
will hold the London message-boy.
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