“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”
Holmes turned to the page indicated.
“Here you are, ‘ Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’ ”
“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”
“ ‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7 s. 6 d. ’ ”
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”
“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12 s. ’ ”
“What have you to say now?”
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words.
A few yards off he stopped under a lamppost and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.
“When you see