ən ˈwɒt əv ˈaɪriːn ˈædlər aɪ
ˈɑːst
ˈəʊ | ˈʃiːz ˈtɜːnd ˈɔːl
ðə ˈmenz ˈhedz | ˈdaʊn ɪn ˈðæp ˈpɑːt || ʃiz ðə ˈdeɪntiəs ˈθɪŋ ʌndər ə ˈbɒnɪt
| ɒn ˈðɪs ˈplænɪt || ˈsəʊ ˈseɪ ðə ˈsɜːpəntaɪm ˈmjuːz | tu ə ˈmæn
|| ʃi ˈlɪvz ˈkwaɪətli | ˈsɪŋz ək ˈkɒnsəts | ˈdraɪvz ˈaʊt |
ət ˈfaɪv ˈevri ˈdeɪ | ən rəˈtɜːnz ət ˈsevn̩ ˈʃɑːp | fə ˈdɪnə
|| ˈseldəm ɡəʊz ˈaʊt ət ˈʌðə ˈtaɪmz | ɪkˈsep wen ʃi ˈsɪŋz | hæz
ˈəʊnli ˈwʌm ˈmeɪl ˈvɪzətə | bət ə ˈɡʊd ˈdiːl əv ɪm || hiz ˈdɑːk
| ˈhænsəm | ən ˈdæʃɪŋ | ˈnevə ˈkɔːlz | ˈles ðən ˈwʌns ə ˈdeɪ
| ən ˈɒfn̩ ˈtwaɪs || hiz ə ˈmɪstə ˈɡɒdfri ˈnɔːtn̩ | əv ði ˈɪnə ˈtempl̩
|| ˈsiː ði ədˈvɑːtəʤɪz | əv ə ˈkæbmən əz ə ˈkɒnfədænt || ðeɪd ˈdrɪvn̩
ɪm ˈhəʊm | ə ˈdʌzn̩ ˈtaɪmz | frəm ˈsɜːpəntaɪm ˈmjuːz | ən
ˈnjuː ˈɔːl əˈbaʊt ɪm || ˈwen aɪd ˈlɪsn̩d | tu ˈɔːl ðeɪ ˈhæd tə ˈtel
| aɪ bɪˈɡæn tə ˈwɔːk ˈʌp ən ˈdaʊn | ˈnɪə ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ ˈwʌns ˈmɔː
| ən tə ˈθɪŋk ˈəʊvə | maɪ ˈplæn əv ˈkæmˈpeɪn
ðɪs ˈɡɒdfri ˈnɔːtn̩ | wəz
ˈevədəntli ən ɪmˈpɔːtn̩t ˈfæktər ɪn ðə ˈmætə || hi wəz ə ˈlɔɪə ||
ˈðæt ˈsaʊndɪd ˈɒmɪnəs || ˈwɒt wəz ðə rəˈleɪʃn̩ʃɪp bəˈtwiːn ðəm |
ən ˈwɒt wəz ði ˈɒbʤekt | əv hɪz rɪˈpiːtɪd ˈvɪzɪts || ˈwɒʒ ʃi ɪz ˈklaɪənt
| hɪz ˈfrend | ɔːr ɪz ˈmɪstrəs || ˈɪf ðə ˈfɔːmə | ʃib
ˈprɒbəbli trænsˈfɜːd ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf
| tə ˈhɪz ˈkiːpɪŋ || ˈɪf ðə ˈlætə | ɪt wəz ˈles ˈlaɪkli
|| ɒn ði ˈɪʃuː əv ˈðɪs ˈkwesʧən | dɪˈpendɪd ˈweðər aɪ ʃəɡ kənˈtɪnjuː maɪ
ˈwɜːk | əp ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ | ɔː ˈtɜːm maɪ əˈtenʃn̩ | tə ðə ˈʤentl̩mənz
ˈʧeɪmbəz | ɪn ðə ˈtempl̩ || ɪt wəz ə ˈdeləkəp ˈpɔɪt | ən
ɪt ˈwaɪdn̩d ðə ˈfiːld ə maɪ ɪŋˈkwaɪəri || aɪ ˈfɪə tə ˈbɔː ju |
wɪð ˈðiːz ˈdiːteɪlz | bət aɪ ˈhæf tə ˈleʧu ˈsiː maɪ ˈlɪtl̩ ˈdɪfəkl̩tiz
aɪm ˈfɒləʊɪŋ ju ˈkləʊsli aɪ
ˈɑːnsəd
“And what of Irene
Adler?” I asked.
“Oh, she has turned
all the men's heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a
bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly,
sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for
dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one
male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never
calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the
Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven
him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had
listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge
once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.
“This Godfrey Norton
was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded
ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his
repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the
former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the
latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I
should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's
chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my
inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see
my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.”
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