The Adventure of the Abbey Grange

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
the winter of '97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder.
It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his eager,
stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was amiss.

"Come, Watson, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word!
Into your clothes and come!"

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through
the silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The
first faint winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could
dimly see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed
us, blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes
nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
our fast.

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his
pocket, and read aloud:

Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent,
3:30 A.M.
MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in
your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that
everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace there.
Yours faithfully,
STANLEY HOPKINS.

"Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
summons has been entirely justified," said Holmes. "I fancy that
every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your
fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of
a story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what
might have been an instructive and even classical series of
demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader."

"Why do you not write them yourself?" I said, with some bitterness.

"I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
case of murder."

"You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

"I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable
agitation, and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there
has been violence, and that the body is left for our