I put up, of course, at the inn--stuck a large parchment book of flies half in and half out of the pocket of my shooting-jacket--and set off at once to the doctor's.

The waiter of whom I asked my way stared distrustfully while he directed me.

The people at the inn had evidently heard of my new friend, and were not favorably disposed toward the cause of scientific investigation.
The house stood about a mile out of the town, in a dip of ground near the famous fishing-stream.

It was a lonely, old-fashioned red-brick building, surrounded by high walls, with a garden and plantation behind it.
As I rang at the gate-bell, I looked up at the house.

Sure enough all the top windows in front were closed with shutters and barred.