Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued.  On the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not.

“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty.  You should have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view of this interesting person.  As it is, you were some hundreds of yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith.  She thinks she does not know the man; I am convinced she does.  Why, otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see his features?  You describe him as bending over the handle-bar.  Concealment again, you see.  You really have done remarkably badly.  He returns to the house, and you want to find out who he is.  You come to a London house agent!”

“What should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.

“Gone to the nearest public-house.  That is the centre of country gossip.  They would have told you every name, from the master to the scullery-maid.  Williamson?  It conveys nothing to my mind.  If he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit.  What have we gained by your expedition?  The knowledge that the girl’s story is true.  I never doubted it.  That there is a connection between the cyclist and the Hall.  I never doubted that either.  That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson.  Who’s the better for that?  Well, well, my dear sir, don’t look so depressed.  We can do little more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two inquiries myself.”

Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the letter lay in the postscript: 

I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me.  I am convinced that his feelings are most deep and most honourable.  At the same time, my promise is of course given.  He took my refusal very seriously, but also very gently.  You can understand, however, that the situation is a little strained.  “Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter.  “The case certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility of development than I had originally thought.  I should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories which I have formed.”

Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland Yard investigation.  He was immensely tickled by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them.