and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”
“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of the Mapleton stables?”
“Nothing at all.”
Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased. A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little redbrick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road. Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long gray-tiled outbuilding. In every other direction the low curves of the moor, bronze-colored from the fading ferns, stretched away to the skyline, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and stepped out of the carriage.