DarqueDante/test2 · Datasets at Hugging Face

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sister of mine apply for."

"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed
some opinion?"

"Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr.
Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not
possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the
matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he
humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

"That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is the
most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice
household for a young lady."

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

"Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what makes
me uneasy. Why should they give you £120 a year, when they could have
their pick for £40? There must be some strong reason behind."

"I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand
afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I
felt that you were at the back of me."

"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your
little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my
way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some
of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger--"

"Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we
could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a telegram
would bring me down to your help."

"That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety
all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in
my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor
hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few
grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off
upon her way.

"At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the
stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take
care of herself."

"And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much mistaken
if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled. A
fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts
turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of
human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual
salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to
something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the
man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers
to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for
half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he
swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.
"Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks
without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no
sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as
I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of
those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in,
when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at
night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast
in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at
the message, threw it across to me.

"Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back to
his chemical studies.

The summons was a brief and urgent one.

Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow
[it said]. Do come! I am at my wit's end.
Hunter.

"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

"I should wish to."

"Just look it up, then."

"There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my
Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11.30."

"That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
morning."

By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old
English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the
way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them
down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a

sister of mine apply for."

"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed

some opinion?"

"Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr.

Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not

possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the

matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he

humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

"That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is the

most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice

household for a young lady."

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

"Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what makes

me uneasy. Why should they give you £120 a year, when they could have

their pick for £40? There must be some strong reason behind."

"I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand

afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I

felt that you were at the back of me."

"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your

little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my

way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some

of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger--"

"Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we

could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a telegram

would bring me down to your help."

"That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety

all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in

my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor

hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few

grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off

upon her way.

"At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the

stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take

care of herself."

"And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much mistaken

if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled. A

fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts

turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of

human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual

salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to

something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the

man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers

to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for

half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he

swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.

"Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks

without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no

sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as

I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of

those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in,

when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at

night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast

in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at

the message, threw it across to me.

"Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back to

his chemical studies.

The summons was a brief and urgent one.

Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow

[it said]. Do come! I am at my wit's end.

Hunter.

"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

"I should wish to."

"Just look it up, then."

"There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my

Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11.30."

"That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my

analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the

morning."

By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old

English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the

way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them

down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a