Этюд в багровых тонах
The Lauriston Garden Mystery
“Getyourhat,”hesaid.
“Youwishmetocome?”
“Yes,ifyouhavenothingbettertodo.” Aminutelaterwewerebothinahansom,drivingfuriouslyfortheBrixtonRoad.
Itwasafoggy,cloudymorning,andadun-colouredveilhungoverthehouse-tops,lookinglikethereflectionofthemud-colouredstreetsbeneath. Mycompanionwasinthebestofspirits,andprattledawayaboutCremonafiddles,andthedifferencebetweenaStradivariusandanAmati. Asformyself,Iwassilent,forthedullweatherandthemelancholybusinessuponwhichwewereengaged,depressedmyspirits.
“Youdon’tseemtogivemuchthoughttothematterinhand,”Isaidatlast,interruptingHolmes’musicaldisquisition.
“Nodatayet,”heanswered. “Itisacapitalmistaketotheorizebeforeyouhavealltheevidence. Itbiasesthejudgment.”
“Youwillhaveyourdatasoon,”Iremarked,pointingwithmyfinger;“thisistheBrixtonRoad,andthatisthehouse,ifIamnotverymuchmistaken.”
“Soitis.Stop,driver,stop!” Wewerestillahundredyardsorsofromit,butheinsisteduponouralighting,andwefinishedourjourneyuponfoot.
Number3,LauristonGardensworeanill-omenedandminatorylook. Itwasoneoffourwhichstoodbacksomelittlewayfromthestreet,twobeingoccupiedandtwoempty. Thelatterlookedoutwiththreetiersofvacantmelancholywindows,whichwereblankanddreary,savethathereandtherea“ToLet”cardhaddevelopedlikeacataractupontheblearedpanes.
