"What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run
down to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your
annals?"
"I was longing for something to do."
"You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to
order a cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my
dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case."
A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat
was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent
on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like
as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five
minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.
It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and
prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned
women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and
tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss
Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were
ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,
and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A
worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured
silks stood upon a stool beside her.
"They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things," said she as
Lestrade entered. "I wish that you would take them away
altogether."
"So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my
friend, Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence."
"Why in my presence, sir?"
"In case he wished to ask any questions."
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