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- Артур Конан Дойл
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At
the
Lyceum
Theatre
the
crowds
were
already
thick
at
the
side
-
entrances
.
In
front
a
continuous
stream
of
hansoms
and
four
-
wheelers
were
rattling
up
,
discharging
their
cargoes
of
shirt
-
fronted
men
and
beshawled
,
bediamonded
women
.
We
had
hardly
reached
the
third
pillar
,
which
was
our
rendezvous
,
before
a
small
,
dark
,
brisk
man
in
the
dress
of
a
coachman
accosted
us
.
“
Are
you
the
parties
who
come
with
Miss
Morstan
?
”
he
asked
.
“
I
am
Miss
Morstan
,
and
these
two
gentlemen
are
my
friends
,
”
said
she
.
He
bent
a
pair
of
wonderfully
penetrating
and
questioning
eyes
upon
us
.
“
You
will
excuse
me
,
miss
,
”
he
said
with
a
certain
dogged
manner
,
“
but
I
was
to
ask
you
to
give
me
your
word
that
neither
of
your
companions
is
a
police
-
officer
.
”
“
I
give
you
my
word
on
that
,
”
she
answered
.
He
gave
a
shrill
whistle
,
on
which
a
street
Arab
led
across
a
four
-
wheeler
and
opened
the
door
.
The
man
who
had
addressed
us
mounted
to
the
box
,
while
we
took
our
places
inside
.
We
had
hardly
done
so
before
the
driver
whipped
up
his
horse
,
and
we
plunged
away
at
a
furious
pace
through
the
foggy
streets
.
The
situation
was
a
curious
one
.
We
were
driving
to
an
unknown
place
,
on
an
unknown
errand
.
Yet
our
invitation
was
either
a
complete
hoax
,
—
which
was
an
inconceivable
hypothesis
,
—
or
else
we
had
good
reason
to
think
that
important
issues
might
hang
upon
our
journey
.
Miss
Morstan
’
s
demeanor
was
as
resolute
and
collected
as
ever
.
I
endeavored
to
cheer
and
amuse
her
by
reminiscences
of
my
adventures
in
Afghanistan
;
but
,
to
tell
the
truth
,
I
was
myself
so
excited
at
our
situation
and
so
curious
as
to
our
destination
that
my
stories
were
slightly
involved
.
To
this
day
she
declares
that
I
told
her
one
moving
anecdote
as
to
how
a
musket
looked
into
my
tent
at
the
dead
of
night
,
and
how
I
fired
a
double
-
barrelled
tiger
cub
at
it
.
At
first
I
had
some
idea
as
to
the
direction
in
which
we
were
driving
;
but
soon
,
what
with
our
pace
,
the
fog
,
and
my
own
limited
knowledge
of
London
,
I
lost
my
bearings
,
and
knew
nothing
,
save
that
we
seemed
to
be
going
a
very
long
way
.
Sherlock
Holmes
was
never
at
fault
,
however
,
and
he
muttered
the
names
as
the
cab
rattled
through
squares
and
in
and
out
by
tortuous
by
-
streets
.
“
Rochester
Row
,
”
said
he
.
“
Now
Vincent
Square
.
Now
we
come
out
on
the
Vauxhall
Bridge
Road
.
We
are
making
for
the
Surrey
side
,
apparently
.
Yes
,
I
thought
so
.
Now
we
are
on
the
bridge
.
You
can
catch
glimpses
of
the
river
.
”
