down from the bluff and into the valley. I made note of the area in case my side journey turned into a dead end and I was forced to return this way. Once on level ground, I followed the rails towards Litchfield. When we turned away from Mayswood, Fandango again showed a disposition to sulk, but she finally became reconciled to the situation and mustered a presentable single-foot that did not bounce me too much in the saddle, though certain portions of my posterior gave promise of tenderness.
The single-foot segued into a canter, and I realized that Fandango was a gaited horse when she accelerated into a rack that ate up ground with a gentle rapidity. The horse, like Deets, sensed my ineptitude and seemed to be making things easy for me, or perhaps she was in a hurry to get the matter over and get back to a nosebag.
On the outskirts of Litchfield Fandango decelerated into her single-foot, probably her most showy gait, and I fancy we made a sporty pair as we entered the hamlet, which was little more than one street of about two city blocks in length terminating at the railroad station.
As I suspected, there was a cable office adjacent to the station, and I drew up before it and, carefully and slowly, quitted my saddle with no more than a few grunts. I led Fandango to the horse trough in approved style and then secured her reins on an adjacent rail right next to a mounting box. I'd gotten off without falling on my face, and perhaps I could resume my seat with dignity as well.
At the cable office I entered and made a show as though inquiring about a message. Actually I just exchanged some words with the telegrapher about the weather, and he must have thought I was a lonesome soul indeed. Vacating these premises, I noted that the local inn, a small establishment, was named 'The Red Lion.' Were I to possess a pound note for every inn by that name in Britain, I might well have a box at the races next to Lord Balmoral! 'The Red Lion' had to be the center of Litchfield's limited social life, so I set my feet towards it resolutely. Then I saw them! Two Chinamen on the opposite side of the street and coming towards me. Well, I had not been friend and biographer of Sherlock Holmes for so long without recognizing the makings of a shrewd move. Orientals don't just happen in the depths of Surrey. Contrary to the experience of our American cousins, English hands iron English shirts, and most of our railroads were built with the assistance of the Welsh and the Cornish. The Chinese had to be visitors and, hence, had to be residing at the inn.
I hastened my steps and preceded them into the edifice by way of the pub door conveniently available. Being already on the premises, they could not suspect me of following them should they make an appearance. Chinese spelled Chu San Fu, and while the grip of the former crime czar on Limehouse had been broken, it made sense that many of the retainers he still had left would be of his race.
I assumed a stance at the empty bar and wished I had a riding crop to tap against my boots as I ordered a stout.
The barkeep was a man of few words, but when he filled my order he summoned seven of them, revealing in the process his Scots ancestry.
'I ken you're nae from these parts.'
'A visitor, my good man, as you have discerned.'
I felt that a sop to the Scot's powers of observation might lead to more discernment on other subjects, but he indicated little interest in my length of stay, point of origin, or anything else.
After giving the polished wood surface a perfunctory swipe with a bar rag, he retired to the end of the room to throw darts at the inevitable board. Keeping his eye sharp for some bets with the evening trade, I thought. However, said practice was interrupted, to my delight, by the entrance of the Chinese. In very broken English, they requested tea and retired to a side table and low conversation in their native tongue. The barkeep relayed the order through a service window in the back of the bar and resumed his dart activity.
I was considering ordering another draft and wondering how I might get closer to the Chinese, a fruitless task since I could not understand one word of their conversation. Then there was another entry, a disconcerting incident to the barkeep, who had just scored two center hits and was intent on making it three. As it happened, his services were not required. A thin little man in nondescript clothes found his way inside with some difficulty, holding his throat with one hand and gesturing at his mouth with the other. When he spoke, it was in a croak and with some effort.
'Is there . . . is there a doctor round?'
Lifelong training took over. 'I am a doctor,' I said, promptly crossing to him.
'Got somethin' stuck in my windpipe,' he wheezed.
I removed his hand from his throat and, using two fingers, pried his jaws apart, peering down his gullet, but the light in the pub was dim. I ran a finger in an exploratory move past his tongue, for this could be serious, but he started to choke and I removed my digit while I still had it.
He gestured towards the door and I seized him by the arm with a gesture of agreement, leading him outside and into the afternoon sun. With his back to the door, I started to open his mouth again when things took a singular turn.
'Just give it a fake look-see, Doctor Watson, for it's a dodge. Me throat's tip-top.'
I started to draw back from the man with a shocked expression, and alarm bells rang in my ears.
'Keep lookin', Doc,' he urged in a low voice, raising his chin as though to aid my efforts.
As I made a dumb show of peering into his orifice, he spoke quietly and distinctly, no mean feat with his mouth wide open.
'Pay no attention to the Chinks, Doc. Mr. 'Olmes don't want those boyos to get a wind up. Just make yer way back to Mayswood, and we'll watch for your signal tonight.'
'Then you are—?'
'—Slippery Styles, Doc.'
Good heavens, I thought, the human shadow! I'd never seen him close to before, but when Holmes wanted someone followed, Styles was the man he called for. My friend contended that Slippery could follow a sinner into hell without getting his coat singed!
Momentarily inspired, I whipped out a pocket handkerchief, holding it to Styles's mouth and slapping him on the back. The little man made a nice show of apparently coughing up a chicken bone or some such object. There lurks in all of us the desire to perform, even in an empty theatre, and I was so imbued by this adventure that I had a happy inspiration.
'My room is on the front of Mayswood,' I mentioned as though I were telling the chap that he was all right now.
'Got yuh, Doc. Till tonight.'
With the feeling that all was not amiss, I returned to the pub to pay for my drink and departed full of self- approval since I had not cast a single glance at the mysterious Chinese.
As I managed, with the help of the mounting block, to straddle Fandango and get my feet into the irons, I reasoned that Holmes must already be alerted to the presence of Orientals in the vicinity of Mayswood. No doubt from Gilligan's cable.
Going down the street, Fandango gave indications of following a different route and seemed to harbor definite ideas about it. It occurred to me that the horse would take me back to the breeding farm in the most direct manner if allowed to, so I was content to let her take charge. After all, there is a limit to the patience of a five-gaited show horse. Such she had to be to successfully transport a middle-aged doctor of sedentary habits safely up hill and down dale through the Surrey countryside.
Back at Mayswood Stud, I had ample time to wash up and change for dinner before joining Deets in the drawing room. His Irish whiskey was on a par with his burgundy, and seated next to a pleasing fire, my blood running faster from the day's ride, I resolved to treat said spirits with respect. My host had a pleasing personality, as I had noted before, though he was not as loquacious or rapid in his speech as he had been during our first meeting at Baker Street. I informed him that my afternoon had produced no results and considered mentioning the two Chinese but abandoned the thought. It could do no good and might do the reverse.
I tried to lead the conversation to horse breeding. Deets spoke easily and fluently on that subject, and I resolved to give more attention to the bloodlines of my racing choices in the future. Whenever the conversation dragged, I resorted to previous cases of Holmes's, a conversational crutch that I could use with facility and that always found ready ears. I did mention that I thought Holmes would conclude his London investigation shortly and would join us in the country. It seemed the sporting thing to do and apparently this proved welcome news.
Butler Dooley, like all of his rare breed, appeared with seeming omniscience whenever needed and gave indication of having a sharp pair of ears to boot. His master had absented himself for a moment for some
