The Adventure of the Abbey Grange

           Itwasonabitterlycoldandfrostymorning,towardstheendofthewinterof’97,thatIwasawakenedbyatuggingatmyshoulder.ItwasHolmes.Thecandleinhishandshoneuponhiseager,stoopingface,andtoldmeataglancethatsomethingwasamiss.

           “Come,Watson,come!”hecried.“Thegameisafoot.Notaword!Intoyourclothesandcome!”

           Tenminuteslaterwewerebothinacab,andrattlingthroughthesilentstreetsonourwaytoCharingCrossStation.Thefirstfaintwinter’sdawnwasbeginningtoappear,andwecoulddimlyseetheoccasionalfigureofanearlyworkmanashepassedus,blurredandindistinctintheopalescentLondonreek.Holmesnestledinsilenceintohisheavycoat,andIwasgladtodothesame,fortheairwasmostbitter,andneitherofushadbrokenourfast.

           ItwasnotuntilwehadconsumedsomehotteaatthestationandtakenourplacesintheKentishtrainthatweweresufficientlythawed,hetospeakandItolisten.Holmesdrewanotefromhispocket,andreadaloud:

           AbbeyGrange,Marsham,Kent,3:30A.M.

           MYDEARMR.HOLMES:

           Ishouldbeverygladofyourimmediateassistanceinwhatpromisestobeamostremarkablecase.Itissomethingquiteinyourline.ExceptforreleasingtheladyIwillseethateverythingiskeptexactlyasIhavefoundit,butIbegyounottoloseaninstant,asitisdifficulttoleaveSirEustacethere.

           Yoursfaithfully,

           STANLEYHOPKINS.

           “Hopkinshascalledmeinseventimes,andoneachoccasionhissummonshasbeenentirelyjustified,”saidHolmes.