Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
by A. Conan Doyle
Adventure I
Silver Blaze
"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.