We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name of our destination, when the stationmaster hurried towards us. “I suppose that you are the detectives from London?” said he.

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

“Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through. But maybe you are the surgeons. She’s not dead⁠—or wasn’t by last accounts. You may be in time to save her yet⁠—though it be for the gallows.”

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

“We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he, “but we have heard nothing of what has passed there.”