Mycroft; without any change of his bright and almost careless tone, remarked, as though we had been discussing it all through lunch, “We’ll pay that second visit to Heregrove this afternoon. The morning’s work went perfectly—even quicker and better than I had dared to hope. Just come into the laboratory, and I’ll be able to show you everything and how ready we are now to finish off this troublesome little matter.” One side of me knew that he was talking about a desperate and even illegal adventure. But that side was simply timid, calculating, bloodless reason. He had put his own mood into my blood, and that was surging about in a state of merriment which actually made (I must record it) the word adventure, to me, Sydney Silchester, have almost a ring of attractiveness in it, instead of the very warning sound which I have always connected with such a noun. Mr. Mycroft closed the laboratory door, drew out a chair, cleared it of books, offered it to me, and himself perched, like a powerful bird, on the edge of the bench.
