The Great Detective Read Online Free PDF Page B

orders, the delicate and expensive Number 475-S appeared thrice. One box had been sold to a watchmaker by appointment to the Queen, and two boxes each to two individuals: A Mr. Thomas Edison, with an address in New York, America, and a certain Mr. Peter Cantrip.
    Breathless with excitement, Tacy wrote down Cantrip’s direction. She was making a note of the other addresses when she heard the clerk’s voice asking her what she was doing.
    Thrusting her notebook in her muff, Tacy stiffened her back and assumed what she hoped was a forbidding expression.
    â€œWell, brother,” she said. “Are you finished at last? I feel one of my spasms coming on.”
    Dr. Watson’s face was the picture of brotherly alarm. “To be sure, my dear.” Then, man-to-man: “You understand, Mr. Clovelly, I am sure.”
    Mr. Clovelly’s whiskers trembled slightly. “Yes. I mean to say, what are you doing at my desk, miss?”
    Tacy gave an awful groan. The doctor hurried over and took her arm. “She is of a hysterical bent,” he confided to Mr. Clovelly. “Restless, you know. I had better get her home. Thank you for your advice. It was most helpful.”
    And he strode from the shop, Tacy clinging to his arm, struggling to stifle her mirth until Steyne & Sons was safely out of sight and sound. “Poor Mr. Clovelly!” she exclaimed as they rounded the corner. “I thought he was going to have a spasm on his own account!”
    The doctor smiled. “Indeed. I am much obliged to you, ma’am. Mr. Clovelly has given me a thorough grounding in the science of gears and bearings and drive trains, could I only remember it all. Were you able to procure the information you needed?”
    â€œI think so,” Tacy said. “There were three recent orders for the 475-S, but the only one that signified was Mr. Peter Cantrip. Odd it is how his name is constantly turning up, like a worm after rain.”
    â€œOdd, indeed. Where does this Cantrip live?”
    â€œIn Spitalfields,” Tacy said. “What sort of district is Spitalfields?”
    Dr. Watson frowned. “Not nearly so respectable as Shoreditch. Ladies do not commonly venture there.”
    â€œA blacksmith’s daughter, I am.” Tacy gave him a sober look. “Have you such a thing as a revolver about you?”
    Dr. Watson looked startled. “My service revolver is at my lodgings.”
    â€œWe will call at your lodgings on the way, then.”
    *   *   *
    Where Shoreditch smelled primarily of smoke and stone, Spitalfields smelled of humanity: poor, cramped, and unhappy. As Tacy and Dr. Watson’s hansom churred over the cobbles, rats scampered from its path and hollow-cheeked, ragged men and women stared at it with avid, measuring eyes. At length, the cab turned to enter a barren court, stopping in front of what looked to have been a school, set back behind an iron fence. Its windows were clumsily boarded and its bricks were streaked with moss.
    Tacy tapped the hansom’s speaking tube. “Will you wait for us?”
    â€œNot in Spitalfields,” the mechanical coachman replied.
    â€œCome, come, Miss Gof,” said Watson cheerfully. “If you can contemplate with equanimity bearding a mad scientist in his den, the streets of Spitalfields need not alarm you.”
    â€œI am not alarmed,” said Tacy, with dignity. “Just wondering I was, how we are to get Sir Arthur away, once we’ve rescued him.”
    â€œOne problem at a time, Miss Gof,” he said. “Before we get away, we must get in.”
    The iron fence was provided with a stout gate, secured by a bright new chain and lock. Dr. Watson examined it with a businesslike air. “It seems the mysterious Mr. Cantrip does not encourage casual visitors. Have you such a thing as a hairpin about you, Miss Gof?”
    â€œFull of surprises, you are,” she said, and drew one out of her coiled