“That is a possible solution—­in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one.  But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady.”

“But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”

“Well, yes, of course the pay is good—­too good.  That is what makes me uneasy.  Why should they give you 120 pounds a year, when they could have their pick for 40 pounds?  There must be some strong reason behind.”

“I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help.  I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me.”

“Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you.  I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months.  There is something distinctly novel about some of the features.  If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger—­”

“Danger!  What danger do you foresee?”

Holmes shook his head gravely.  “It would cease to be a danger if we could define it,” said he.  “But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help.”

“That is enough.”  She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all swept from her face.  “I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now.  I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.”  With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her way.

“At least,” said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, “she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself.”

“And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely.  “I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past.”

It was not very long before my friend’s prediction was fulfilled.  A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman had strayed into.  The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine.  As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.  “Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently.  “I can’t make bricks without clay.”  And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the morning.  He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me.