The case with nine solutions

J. J. Connington
Dr. Ringwood pushed his chair back from the dinner-table. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him that on this evening he had been even later than usual in getting home for dinner. The expression in his eyes showed that he had gone short of sleep for some time past; and when he rose to his feet, every movement betrayed his over-tired condition.
“Bring my coffee to the study, please, Shenstone,” he ordered. “And you might take the telephone in there as well.”
He crossed the hall wearily, switched on the study lights, and stood for a moment on the threshold as if undecided what to do. A bright fire burned on the hearth; the heavy pile of the carpet was soft to his feet; and the big saddlebag armchairs spoke to him of pure physical comfort and relaxation after the strain of the day. He moved over to a table, hesitated again, and then picked up a copy of the B.M.J. in its postal wrapper. Taking a cigar from a box on the table, he clipped it mechanically and sat down in one of the chairs by the fire.
Shenstone drew a small table to Dr. Ringwood's elbow and placed the coffee on it; then, retiring for a moment, he returned with the telephone, which he plugged to a connection in the room.
“Bring it over here, Shenstone. I want to be sure that the bell will wake me if I happen to doze.”
Shenstone did as he was ordered and was about to leave the room when Dr. Ringwood spoke again.
“Fog clearing off, by any chance?”
Shenstone shook his head.
“No, sir. Worse now than when you came in. Very thick indeed, sir. One can't see even the nearest street lamp.”
Dr. Ringwood nodded gloomily.
“It's to be hoped no one wants me to go out this evening. Difficult enough to find one's way about a strange town in the daytime with a fog like this over everything. But in the daytime there are always people about who can give you some help. Nobody bar policemen will be out to-night, I should think.”