I must go down there, Watson. I must, said Sherlock Holmes at the breakfast table on Thursday morning.
‘Go? Go where?’ I asked.
‘To Dartmoor - to King’s Pyland.’
‘Ah! So that’s it,’ I said. ‘Well, everybody in the country is talking about the case at King’s Pyland.’
I alwl#i'know when Holmes is interested in a case. He reads all the newspapers, he walks up and down, up and down the room, and does not speak for hours.
He did all those things! yesterday,sHjb did Pot answer any of my question^ jbut I knew that it was the mystery,at King’s Pyland.
The morning newspapers were on the breakfast table. ‘What is happening at King’s 'Pyland?/where is-Silver blaze?’ tjhcy asked. ‘Who killed John Straker? พhat ale the police doing? Can they find the horse before^the big race next week?’
Silverdjlaze vyas a famous f^eht^e, and Joh$ Straker was his trainer. One of the biggest horse races of the vear - the Wessex Chip -- was next jftsisek*andsiilver blaze, was the favenwdae-ftin. But on M’dndafy night at King’s