something in it.”
“But what is it?”
“I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is Mrs. Maberley’s note. If you care to come with me we will wire her and go out at once.”
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes [I read]:
I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You would find me at home any time tomorrow. The house is within a short walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was one of your early clients.
The address was “The Three Gables, Harrow Weald.”
“So that’s that!” said Holmes. “And now, if you can spare the time, Watson, we will get upon our way.”
A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped grassland. Three small projections above the upper windows made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.
“I remember your husband well, madam,” said Holmes, “though it is some years since he used my services in some trifling matter.”
“Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son Douglas.”