“It sounds something of a rural backwater,” I remarked.

“Indeed. And the impression is confirmed by the evidence of the map. There are a number of such small villages in that part of the country, nestling in the river valleys that wind between the hills near the Essex border, but even in such quiet, secluded company, Little Gissingham appears relatively insignificant.”

“It has a railway station, at least,” I observed.

“That is true, although I doubt that that bespeaks any importance in the place itself. It appears from the map that it simply happens to lie on the route of a railway line between other, more notable, places. In any case, the line in question is not an important one, but a mere side shoot from the Cambridge line, which meanders in a leisurely manner across the countryside until it meets up with the coastal line near Colchester. Hum! Let us hope that Mr Harte does not have to wait too long for a connecting train, and that he arrives here soon to enlighten us as to his problem!”

It was almost lunchtime before our visitor arrived. He was a man of about five and forty years of age, of middle height, erect in his bearing, and with a lively and intelligent face. He was dressed in the dark frock coat and pearl-grey trousers of a professional man, and under his arm he carried a large brown-paper package tied up with string, which he placed upon the table as I took his hat.

“I see you have been looking up Little Gissingham,” he remarked, eyeing the map book, which lay open upon the table.

“I find it as well to furnish myself with the fullest knowledge of any matter I am asked to look into,” returned Holmes, shaking his visitor’s hand and ushering him into a chair. “It generally saves time in the end.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said the other in an appreciative tone. “My professional experience has been precisely the same. As to Little Gissingham, it appears a very quiet little place, but the events of last night prove that, even in such a sequestered spot, the strangest of things can occur.”

“You arouse my curiosity,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together in delight. “Am I to understand that you had never visited Little Gissingham before yesterday?”

“Never. I had passed through the railway station there once or twice, but had never paid it any attention.”

“Was it your work as a solicitor which took you there yesterday?”

“Not really. But how do you know my business? Do you know of my connection with Mr Halesworth?”

Holmes shook his head. “The seals upon your watch chain appear to be those of a solicitor,” said he. “But if it was not professional work that took you to Little Gissingham, Mr Harte, perhaps it was something to do with that bulky package you have brought with you. Whatever the reason,” he continued as his visitor nodded his head, “it is apparent that you intended to remain there for only a short time, and then to return home before nightfall. Evidently something occurred to delay you. You missed the last train, I imagine, and were obliged to put up at the Fox and Goose.”

“That is correct in every detail,” exclaimed Harte in surprise. “But how do you know all this?”

“Forgive me for mentioning it – I have no desire to embarrass you,” responded Holmes after a moment, “but there are certain features of your appearance which suggest that you were unable to devote as much care to your toilet this morning as you might have wished. This in turn suggests that you did not have with you those necessities with which a man would equip himself if he knew he would be staying away from home for the night. The conclusion is clear: that your sojourn at the Fox and Goose – the only inn in Little Gissingham, according to my gazetteer – was unpremeditated.”

“That is so, Mr Holmes. I slept last night in my shirt and passed the most uncomfortable night of my adult life. This morning I endeavoured to make the best of myself, but lacked a razor, a clean collar and everything else one takes for granted at home. Dear, oh dear!” he murmured, shaking his head. “I had no idea that my appearance fell so short of a desirable standard!”

“Be assured, sir, it does not. But it is my business to observe such trifles. I am sure that no one else would have noticed anything amiss with your appearance. Let us see! Did anything of the sort strike you, Watson?” he asked, turning to me.

“Certainly not!” I returned.

“You see?” said Holmes to his visitor. “You have no cause for anxiety!”

“Thank goodness for that!” cried the other in evident relief.

“Now,” said Holmes, “if we may proceed with the matter? It was not legal business, you say, that took you to Little Gissingham?”

Rhodes Harte shook his head. “Only very indirectly,” he replied. “I am, as you conjectured, a solicitor, and have been in partnership with Mr Halesworth in Ipswich for many years. About six weeks ago I had occasion to travel across the county to visit an old client of ours, Mr Packham. He lived formerly in Ipswich, but when he retired he moved to Saffron Walden, about forty-odd miles away on the other side of Essex. He is an elderly gentleman and has difficulty getting about, and as he seemed very keen to consult me, I agreed to go and see him. It was a delightful spring day, and although the journey involved changing trains a couple of times, and was thus quite a long one, it nevertheless made a pleasant break from routine to be away from my chambers for a while.

“On the way home, I was obliged to wait for some time at a rural railway junction. It was a sunny afternoon, and I was enjoying sitting on the bench on the platform, listening to songbirds in the nearby trees. There was another man sitting there, reading a book, a scholarly-looking, elderly man with a high domed forehead and mane of white hair, and after a while we fell into conversation. I had observed that the book he was reading was David Copperfield, and I passed some remark as to its being a very entertaining book.

“‘It is more than entertaining, sir!’ returned he, closing the book up and giving me a piercing glance. ‘It is extremely stimulating to the intellect!’

“‘Oh, quite so,’ I agreed. ‘I meant merely that it contains some very amusing characters and situations.’

“‘That can scarcely be denied,’ conceded the scholarly gentleman in a somewhat grudging tone, ‘and yet those characters and situations for which the book seems to be most renowned are, in my opinion, among its least interesting features. The characters of Mr Micawber and Uriah Heep, for instance, are certainly entertaining enough, but it is arguable whether they shed much light upon human beings in general. Some of the other characters, however, and the relations between them, are drawn with very great subtlety and profundity, and it is there, I would argue, that the book’s true merit lies. It is certainly a good book. That is generally agreed. Unfortunately, it is, for this reason, not infrequently given to young people of fourteen and fifteen years of age, as a school prize or birthday present. You are wondering, no doubt, why this is unfortunate. Because, sir, although such young people, whose intellects are just beginning to mature from childhood to adulthood, will no doubt derive some pleasure from the book, they are unlikely to really appreciate – or even fully understand – its subtleties. And having read it once, most of them will never read it again, and thus will be denied the opportunity to appraise the book with a mind fully matured by experience of life.’

“With that he put the book down altogether, stowing it away in a leather satchel at his feet, and asked my opinion of the matter. I made some response, and soon we were deep into a broad and fascinating discussion upon literature in general, English literature especially, and Charles Dickens in particular, and I must say that it was quite the most stimulating conversation I have had on any subject in the last twelve months. My companion’s views, which he delivered with great eloquence, were highly original and fascinating, and I should have been perfectly content simply to sit there and listen to him until the train arrived, but he was very keen, also, to elicit my opinions, as if to weigh them against his own, and to every word I uttered he gave the most careful and courteous consideration. He was, in short, not simply a very learned scholar, but a true gentleman. He introduced himself as Dr Kennett, and informed me that he was returning from a public lecture he had attended that day in Cambridge. I was a little surprised at this, for it seemed to me that it might have been more profitable for all concerned if a man of such erudition, and with such a passion for his subject, had been employed in delivering a lecture rather than in listening to one. Nor was his enthusiasm for learning confined to literature. He mentioned in the course of our conversation that he had alighted at that little rural station on the merest whim, having been attracted by the appearance of some woods that bordered the railway line. On the spur of the moment, he explained, he had decided to break his journey there and explore the area, which was unknown to him. I asked him if his exploration had been interesting.