The adventure of the blue car-buncle, part two.

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped crevats about our throats.

Outside the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by

blew out into smoke, like so many pistol shots.

Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctor's quarter,

simple street, Harley Street, and so through Rigmore Street into Oxford Street.

In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public house

at the corner of one of the streets, which runs down into Holborn.

Helms pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the

ready-faced white-aprint landlord.

Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese, said he.

A geese, the man seemed surprised.

Yes, I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose

club.

Ah, yes, I see, but you see, sir, that's not our geese.

Indeed, who's then?

Well, I got the two dozen from the salesman in Covent Garden.

Indeed, I know some of them, which was it?

Breckenridge is his name.

Ah, I don't know him.

Well, here's your good health, landlord.

Good night.

...