Come along, and I will personally
conduct you."
"No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's
door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were
some really curious pieces of mediaeval domestic architecture
within. Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted
on drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow
one from our host, and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his
own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of
the Indian -- a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us
askance, and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural
studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case
Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching.
Only at the third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door
would not open to our knock, and-nothing more substantial than
a torrent of bad language came from behind it. "I don't care who
you are. You can go to blazes!" roared the angry voice. "To-
morrow's the exam, and I won't be drawn by anyone.
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