“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features of the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night—­he has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games.  The young man’s fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him.  The football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton’s fate.  Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes.  “Then perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong, of Cambridge.  I picked it out from among the papers upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook.  “If you prefer a public explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he.  “I have already told you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me—­the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.  “A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—­a telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—­and yet you have not had it.  It is most culpable.  I shall certainly go down to the office here and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face was crimson with fury.

“I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he.  “You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to do either with him or with his agents.  No, sir—­not another word!” He rang the bell furiously.  “John, show these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street.  Holmes burst out laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,” said he.  “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty.  And now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case.  This little inn just opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs.  If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”