The Adventure of the Devil's FootDoyle, Arthur Conan
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The Adventure of the Devil's Foot
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Detective and mystery stories; Holmes, Sherlock (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Private investigators -- England -- Fiction
"From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it
from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's
account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night
there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to
Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do
you make of that, Watson?"
"He is deeply interested."
"Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet
grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson,
for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand.
When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us."
Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or
how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up
an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in
the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a
dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door,
and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden
path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him.
Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last
in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him.
"We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he
cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his
hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it
were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his
terrible news.
"Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the
same symptoms as the rest of his family."
Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant.
"Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?"
"Yes, I can."
"Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are
entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get
disarranged."
The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle
by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large
sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn
which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the
police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe
exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has
left an impression which can never be effaced from my mind.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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