Molly whispered to Sherlock, “That’s John Watson sitting right across the aisle from you, Sherlock. Just look at him and see if you don’t think he’s handsome.”
Sherlock looked accordingly. He had a good chance to do so, for the said John Watson was absorbed in stealthily pinning the long braid of Janine Hawkins, who sat in front of him, to the back of her seat. Presently Janine started up to take a sum to the master; she fell back into her seat with a little shriek, believing that her hair was pulled out by the roots. Everybody looked at her, and Mr. Anderson glared so sternly that Janine began to cry. John had whisked the pin out of sight and was studying his history with the soberest face in the world; but when the commotion subsided he looked at Sherlock and winked with inexpressible drollery.
“I think John Watson is handsome,” confided Sherlock to Molly, “but I think he’s very bold. It isn’t good manners to wink at a stranger.”
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“The brooch is gone, and Sherlock has taken it and lied about it. That’s the plain, ugly truth, Greg Lestrade, and we might as well look it in the face.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Greg asked, feeling secretly thankful that Mycroft and not he had to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to step in this time.
“He’ll stay in his room until he confesses,” said Mycroft grimly, remembering the success of this method in the former case. “Then we’ll see. Perhaps we’ll be able to find the brooch if he’ll only tell where he took it; but in any case he’ll have to be severely punished, Greg.”
“Well,you’ll have to punish him,” said Greg. “I’ve nothing to do with it, remember. You warned me off yourself.”
Mycroft felt deserted by everyone.
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
“It’s time Sherlock was in to do his sewing,” said Mycroft to himself, glancing at the clock and then out into the yellow August afternoon. “He stayed playing with Molly more than half an hour more than I gave him leave to; and now he’s perched out there on the woodpile talking to Greg, when he knows perfectly well he ought to be at his work. And of course Greg’s listening to him like a perfect ninny. The more that child talks and the odder the things he says, the more Greg’s delighted, evidently.”
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“I will say this for the child,” said Mycroft to Greg, when Sherlock had gone to his gable, “he isn’t stingy. Dear me, it’s only three weeks since he came, and it seems as if he’d been here always. I can’t imagine the place without him. Now, don’t be looking I told-you-so. I’m perfectly willing to own up that I’m glad I consented to keep the child, and that I’m getting fond of him, but don’t you rub it in, Greg Lestrade.”
“Perhaps there’s something else I could rub…”
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