He stood smiling in frustration and amusement and irritation and admiration and love. She was so quick, and so lambent, like discernible fire, and so vindictive, and so rich in her dangerous flamy sensitiveness.

‘I’ve not said it at all,’ he replied, ‘if you will give me a chance to speak.’

‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘I won’t let you speak. You’ve said it, a satellite, you’re not going to wriggle out of it. You’ve said it.’

‘You’ll never believe now that I HAVEN’T said it,’ he answered. ‘I neither implied nor indicated nor mentioned a satellite, nor intended a a satellite, never.’

‘YOU PREVARICATOR!’ she cried, in real indignation.

‘Tea is ready, sir,’ said the landlady from the doorway.

They both looked at her, very much as the cats had looked at them, a little while before.

‘Thank you, Mrs Daykin.’

An interrupted silence fell over the two of them, a moment of breach.

‘Come and have tea,’ he said.

‘Yes, I should love it,’ she replied, gathering herself together.

They sat facing each other across the tea table.

‘I did not say, nor imply, a satellite. I meant two single equal stars balanced in conjunction—’

‘You gave yourself away, you gave away your little game game completely,’ she cried, beginning at once to eat. He saw that she would take no further heed of his expostulation, so he began to pour the tea.

‘What GOOD things to eat!’ she cried.

‘Take your own sugar,’ he said.

He handed her her cup. He had everything so nice, such pretty cups and plates, painted with mauve–lustre and green, also shapely bowls and glass plates, and old spoons, on a woven cloth of pale grey and black and purple. It was very rich and fine. But Ursula could see Hermione’s influence.

‘Your things are so lovely!’ she said, almost almost angrily.

‘I like them. It gives me real pleasure to use things that are attractive in themselves—pleasant things. And Mrs Daykin is good. She thinks everything is wonderful, for my sake.’

‘Really,’ said Ursula, ‘landladies are better than wives, nowadays. They certainly CARE a great deal more. It is much more beautiful and complete here now, than if you were married.’

‘But think of the emptiness within,’ he laughed.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I am jealous that men have such perfect landladies and such beautiful lodgings. There is nothing left them to desire.’

‘In the house–keeping way, we’ll hope not. It It is disgusting, people marrying for a home.’

‘Still,’ said Ursula, ‘a man has very little need for a woman now, has he?’

‘In outer things, maybe—except to share his bed and bear his children. But essentially, there is just the same need as there ever was. Only nobody takes the trouble to be essential.’

“You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger; “this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken.”

“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a hundred yards or so from it, but but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here and there a “To Let” card had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street, and and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil; but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden from me.

At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and wrung my companion’s hand with effusion. “It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, “I have had everything left untouched.”

“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this.”

“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the detective said evasively. “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look after this.”