A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 2

ðə ˈdɔːr əv ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ | wəz ˈəʊpən | ən ən ˈeldəli ˈwʊmən | ˈstʊd əˈpɒn ðə ˈsteps || ʃi ˈwɒʧt əs | wɪð ə sɑːˈdɒnɪk ˈaɪ | əz wi ˈstep frəm ðə ˈbruːəm

ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz aɪ bɪˈliːv ˈsed ʃi

aɪ ˈæm ˈmɪstə ˈhəʊmz | ˈɑːnsəb maɪ kəmˈpænjən | ˈlʊkɪŋ ˈæt ə | wɪð ə ˈkwesʧənɪŋ | ən ˈrɑːðə ˈstɑːtl̩ɡ ˈɡeɪz

ɪnˈdiːd || maɪ ˈmɪstrəs ˈtəʊl mi | ðəʧu wə ˈlaɪkli tə ˈkɔːl || ʃi ˈlef ðɪs ˈmɔːnɪŋ | wɪð ɜː ˈhʌzbənd | baɪ ðə ˈfaɪv ˈfɪftiːn ˈtraɪn | frəm ˈʧærɪŋ ˈkrɒs | fə ðə ˈkɒntənənt

ˈwɒt || ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz ˈstæɡəb ˈbæk | ˈwaɪt wɪð ˈʃæɡrɪn ən səˈpraɪz || ʤu ˈmiːn ðət ʃiz ˈleft ˈɪŋɡlənd

ˈnevə tə rɪˈtɜːn

ən ðə ˈpeɪpəz ˈɑːs ðə ˈkɪŋ ˈhɔːsli || ˈɔːl ɪz ˈlɒst

wi ʃl̩ ˈsiː || hi ˈpʊʃ ˈpɑːs ðə ˈsɜːvənt | ən ˈrʌʃt ɪntə ðə ˈdrɔːrɪŋ ˈruːm | ˈfɒləʊb baɪ ðə ˈkɪŋ əm məˈself || ðə ˈfɜːnəʧə wəz ˈskætəd əˈbaʊt | ɪn ˈevri dəˈrekʃn̩ | wɪð dɪsˈmæntl̩d ˈʃelvz | ən ˈəʊpən ˈdrɔːz | əz ˈɪf ðə ˈleɪdi | əd ˈhʌrɪdli ˈrænsæk ðəm | bɪˈfɔːr ɜː ˈflaɪt || ˈhəʊmz ˈrʌʃt ət ðə ˈbel ˈpʊl | ˈtɔː ˈbæk ə ˈsmɔːl ˈslaɪdɪŋ ˈʃʌtə | əm ˈplʌnʤɪŋ ɪn ɪz ˈhænd | ˈpʊld ˈaʊt ə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | ən ə ˈletə || ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | wəz əv ˈaɪriːn ˈædlər əˈself | ɪn ˈiːvnɪŋ ˈdres | ðə ˈletə wəz ˈsuːpəˈskraɪbd | tə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz ɪˈskwaɪə || tə bi ˈlef tɪl ˈkɔːld ˈfɔː || maɪ ˈfren ˈtɔːr ɪt ˈəʊpən | ən wi ˈɔːl ˈθriː ˈred ɪt təˈɡeðə || ɪt wəz ˈdeɪtɪd əp ˈmɪdnaɪt | əv ðə prɪˈsiːdɪŋ ˈnaɪt | ən ˈræn ɪn ˈðɪs ˈweɪ

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.

“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze.

“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”

“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”

“Never to return.”

“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”

“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way: