Holmes Detective late. Should be in the village of Lougbrought before dinner, but a strong storm was obstructing progress horses car wheels sank heavily into the mud of the road. The water became exhausted smoke in contact with the rump of the horses and the coachman, wrapped in the box to not only be a shade between the quivering yellow lanterns, did not remove them one step further however much abused blasphemy and whip. Frustrated, Holmes, came to the window of the door, stuck his head and shouted to the man to stop. He was about dusk and asked him to stop right there and the car departed from the path. We spend the night here, he said, the shelter of the trees. The man in the box did not argue. They followed the main road for hours, happily trotting from the golden autumn trees and wide stretches of red earth. After the driver followed a shortcut with the hours of darkness and storm, hopelessly lost in the middle of nowhere. When they were off the road, the driver unhitched the horses and got out to open the door of Holmes. Sherlock Holmes protested and in no way going to consent to share the cramped cabin with the man overnight. I remind you sir, Holmes said smugly, that the fault is yours, so do well to sleep with the horses. Here I leave a blanket if needed. The driver, something dark and dripping, opened anyway. A flash fire at night and Holmes saw the black gleam of the barrel of the gun that was pointing to his forehead and cold anger, resentment stale completely familiar eyes. Watson Damn, you! Elementary Holmes friend ...
First anniversary of the Cretin Comèdia
