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We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a

zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest

stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor

a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers

was helping a boy to put up the shutters.

"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my

companion.

"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the

bare slabs of marble.

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

"That's no good."

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

"Who by?"

"The landlord of the Alpha."

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the

salesman.

"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms

akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."