"I am afraid,
           Watson,
         that I
            shall have to go,"
                  said Holmes,
           as we
            sat down
                   together to
                       our breakfast one morning.

    "Go!

    Where to?"

    "To Dartmoor;
        to King's Pyland."

    I was not surprised.

    Indeed,
           my only wonder was
             that he
                had not already
                    been mixed
                           upon this extraordinary case,
         which was the
               one topic
             of conversation
               through the length
                   and breadth of England.

    For a whole day
           my companion
        had rambled
               about the room
                   with his chin
                 upon his chest
                       and his brows knitted,
           charging and recharging his pipe
               with the strongest black tobacco,
         and absolutely deaf
               to any
                   of my questions or remarks.

    Fresh editions of every paper
        had been
              sent up
                   by our news agent,
           only to be
              glanced over and
                  tossed down into a corner.

    Yet,
           silent as he was,
         I knew perfectly well
             what it was over which
                 he was brooding.

    There was but one problem
         before the public
              which could
                  challenge his powers of analysis,
           and that
            was the singular
                 disappearance
                    of the favorite
                   for the Wessex Cup,
         and the tragic murder
               of its trainer.

    When,
           therefore,
         he suddenly
             announced his intention of setting
                   out for the scene
                       of the drama it
            was only
             what I
                had both expected
                    and hoped for.

    "I should be most happy
          to go down with you
         if I
            should not
                  be in the way,"
                      said I.

    "My dear Watson,
           you would confer
               a great favor
             upon me by coming.

    And I think
         that your time
            will not be misspent,
           for there are points
               about the case
              which promise
                  to make it an
                      absolutely unique one.

    We have,
           I think,
         just time
              to catch our train
                   at Paddington,
           and I will go
             further into the matter
                   upon our journey.

    You would oblige me
           by bringing
               with you
                   your very excellent field-glass."

    And so it happened
         that an hour
              or so later
         I found myself
               in the corner
                   of a first-class carriage
              flying along en route
                   for Exeter,
           while Sherlock Holmes,
         with his sharp,
           eager face
              framed in
                   his ear-flapped travelling-cap,
         dipped rapidly
               into the bundle
                   of fresh papers which
             he had procured at Paddington.

    We had
          left Reading far behind us
         before he thrust
               the last one of them
                   under the seat,
           and offered me his cigar-case.

    "We are
          going well," said he,
           looking out the window and
              glancing at his watch.

    "Our rate at present
        is fifty-three
               and a
                   half miles an hour."

    "I have not
          observed the quarter-mile posts,"
              said I.

    "Nor have I. But
           the telegraph
         posts upon this line
        are sixty yards apart,
           and the calculation
            is a simple one.

    I presume
         that you
              have looked into this
                  matter of the murder
                       of John Straker
                     and the
                         disappearance
                            of Silver Blaze?"

    "I have seen
         what the Telegraph
               and the Chronicle
              have to say."

    "It is one of
           those cases
         where the art
               of the reasoner
            should be
                  used rather
                       for the sifting of
                details than
                       for the acquiring
                           of fresh evidence.

    The tragedy
        has been so uncommon,
           so complete
               and of such personal importance
             to so many people,
         that we
            are suffering