It was young Stanley
Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
several times shown a very practical interest.
"Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.
"Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above. "I
hope you have no designs upon us on such a night as this."
The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon
his shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes
knocked a blaze out of the logs in the grate.
"Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes," said
he. "Here's a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing
hot water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like
this. It must be something important which has brought you out
in such a gale."
"It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I
promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
latest editions?"
"I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."
"Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
have not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my
feet. It's down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three
from the railway line.
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