"By all means."
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped
cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly
in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into
smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and
loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street,
Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In
a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which
is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which
runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private
bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced,
white-aproned landlord.
"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,"
said he.
"My geese!" The man
