“‘Very much so,’ said he. ‘The wild flowers in the woods are fascinating at this time of the year. I tramped about there for quite some time, and when I was satisfied that I had seen all that there was to see, I refreshed myself at a nearby inn, and am now ready to resume my journey.’

“Our train arrived shortly after that and we took a compartment together, continuing our most interesting conversation, as the train made its way along a peaceful river valley, and through a succession of little village stations. By the time we reached the station at Little Gissingham, our literary discussion had, I recall, moved on to Shakespeare, and my companion was expatiating on what he saw as similarities of theme in Hamlet and Dickens’s Great Expectations, when all at once he broke off and sprang to his feet with a cry.

“‘Do excuse me, but this is my station,’ said he. ‘I was enjoying our discussion so much that I quite forgot to take any heed of where we were!’ In great haste, he opened the carriage door and sprang onto the platform. ‘I do hope we meet again, Mr Harte!’ cried he as he slammed the door. At that moment, the guard blew his whistle, and a moment later the train moved off and began to pick up speed. My carriage was scarcely clear of the platform, however, when I noticed that my companion’s leather satchel was lying on the floor at my feet. In his haste to leave the train, he had clearly forgotten all about it. I quickly opened the window and leaned out, but he had already left the platform. A moment later, the train passed round a curve, and the little station had vanished from my sight. There was nothing more that I could do.

“When I reached Colchester, I handed the satchel in at the lost property office. ‘The owner’s name is Kennett,’ I said, as the official wrote out a receipt for me. ‘To the best of my knowledge he lives at Little Gissingham. It might be worthwhile to notify the station master there that the satchel has been found, in case the gentleman makes enquiries about it.’

“The official said he would do as I suggested, and there I left the matter. Not knowing my new acquaintance’s address, I could not think that there was any more that I could do. And that, gentlemen,” said Harte, breaking off from his narrative and pausing a moment, “marks the end of the first part of my story. An unexceptional little episode, you might think. However, I’ll warrant you will think otherwise about the second part, all of which took place just yesterday.”

“We are keen to hear the sequel,” returned Holmes. “I take it from your manner that events have taken a somewhat surprising turn.”

“Indeed, several. Do you mind if I smoke?” continued Harte, taking a cigar case from his pocket. “I find a cigar is soothing. My nerves are all shot to pieces by this business!”

“Not at all,” cried Holmes with a chuckle, tossing across a box of matches to his visitor. “We would not want your nerves to prevent your continuing your account!”

For some time the solicitor sat puffing at his cigar in silence while we waited for him to continue.

“Yesterday,” said he at length, “I was obliged again to travel across the county to see old Mr Packham at Saffron Walden. I took the train down from Ipswich to Colchester, as before, and finding that I had a little time to wait for my connection, thought I would enquire if Dr Kennett had retrieved his satchel from the lost property office there. Our delightful discussion on literature had returned to my mind several times during the intervening six weeks, and I had often wondered how the splendid old fellow was getting along. To my surprise, I was informed that the satchel was still lying on a shelf in the lost property office, and that no one had ever been in to claim it.

“‘Was the station master at Little Gissingham informed that it was here?’ I asked.

“‘Yes, sir,’ the official replied, consulting a label that was attached to the satchel. ‘As a matter of fact, I reminded him of it myself, just a week ago, and he sent word back that no enquiries had been made to him about any satchel.’

“This struck me as very odd, but I thought it possible that Dr Kennett was somewhat absent-minded and, perhaps unable to recall when he had last had his satchel, could not think where to begin to look for it. Personally, I should have thought that the very first place one would enquire for something mislaid on the day one had undertaken a railway journey would have been the lost property office at the station, but as my legal work has taught me, one can never assume that anyone else’s thought processes will be the same as one’s own. At first I was inclined simply to dismiss the matter from my mind. It was, after all, not really any business of mine. But then, just as my train rolled into the station, I decided on a sudden impulse that I would return Dr Kennett’s satchel to him myself. If he had no idea where he had lost it, I was sure he would be overjoyed to see it once again, and besides, it would provide me with an excuse to renew our acquaintance, something I was keen to do. I showed the railway official the receipt I had been given for the satchel, and he handed it over to me, declaring that I could do with it as I pleased, as no one else appeared to want it. Clutching it tightly, and with a thrill of anticipation in my breast at the prospect of calling upon my unusual railway acquaintance, I sprang aboard the train just as it moved off.

“I took the satchel with me to Saffron Walden, where I bought some brown paper and string from a hardware shop and wrapped it up. How surprised Dr Kennett would be to see me, I thought, and how surprised to see what I had in my parcel!

“On the way back from Saffron Walden, I alighted at Little Gissingham station with a sensation of pleasurable excitement. At my time of life, one doesn’t experience many novelties or adventures, and I was thoroughly enjoying this unusual expedition. When I enquired of the station master if he knew where Dr Kennett lived, however, my expedition received its first setback.

“‘Never heard of him,’ said the official, a note of finality in his voice.

“‘An elderly, white-haired gentleman,’ I persisted, giving as full a description of Dr Kennett as I could.

“‘Oh, that gentleman!’ said the official at length, evidently recognizing the description better than the name. ‘There’s a gentleman much as you describe, sir, lives at Owl’s Hill.’

“‘Where might that be?’

“‘Go right through the village, past the inn, and about a mile further on you’ll see a house all on its own, on the right beyond the forest. You can’t miss it.’

“I thanked him for the directions and set off with a spring in my step, looking forward to meeting up once more with my scholarly acquaintance. Little Gissingham is a pretty little place, I must say. It has a broad village green, on one side of which is a stream, and on the other a row of very old half-timbered houses. Beyond the green is a low, spreading inn, the Fox and Goose, which is a very ancient-looking building. I should imagine that it has stood in that spot since before the Tudors ascended the throne of England. I admired it as I passed, little thinking as I did so that I should later be obliged to seek shelter for the night within those antique walls. Down the road I walked, past the last few outlying cottages of the village, and into the rolling, thickly wooded country beyond. It was a pleasant day, and I was enjoying being out in the fresh spring air. I knew that I had a good couple of hours at my disposal, before the time of the last train.

“I had been walking for about twenty-five minutes when I began to suspect that I might be going in the wrong direction. There had been no sign of any house such as the station master had described to me, on either side of the road, and it appeared that I was approaching the outskirts of another settlement altogether. With a sigh, I stopped and turned, and began to retrace my steps.