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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. 

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