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It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped

cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly

in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out

into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out

crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter,

Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into

Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at

the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one

of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open

the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from

the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,"

said he.

"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker,

who was a member of your goose club."

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

"Indeed! Whose, then?"