the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were
standing at the door, and, as I entered the passage, I heard the sound of
voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated
conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the
official police agent; while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man,
with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock coat.

"Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket, and
taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you know Mr.
Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is
to be our companion in to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see," said Jones, in his
consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him do the running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase," observed
Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the
police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if he
won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but
he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that
once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra
treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right!" said the stranger, with
deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first
Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber."