A horse in a famous horse racing - the "silver" - have gone missing, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson went to the stables in dartmoor. "Silver" is a week after a series of the favourites, its owner Mr Ross with confidence to win the game. But first he has to find his horse. This case also a dead - John, rick, "silver" horse trainer. His wife in not far from the stable mud his body was found. Gregory inspector to find out the murderer, but he and Mr. Ross has draw the wrong conclusion.

Comments:
Wuthering Heights is a well-written tragedy of love. After reading the whole story, I would like to talk about the main characters of the story—Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff. Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff do love each other very much, but they do not have the right attitude towards love, which leads to the tragedy.
In Catherine’s life, she made a very foolish decision---marrying to Edgar. In fact, her love for Edgar can never be compared to that for Heathcliff. She did so, because she thought the wealth of Edgar would be useful to help Heathcliff. But in reality, it did not work. She did not have a good understanding of love, which is something pure and saint. If anyone add any purpose into love, love itself lost its meaning. Catherine’s wrong decision hurt two people who love her, and even destroyed the happiness of their offspring.
Heathcliff is a man full of retaliation. He loved Catherine very much, but what he did, on the contrary, added to the misery of Catherine. In my opinion, if he really loved Catherine, he should not walk into Catherine’s life again after his disappearance. Further more, after the death of Catherine, what Heathcliff did brought agony to Catherine’s daughter, as well as his own son.
After reading, I have a better understanding of love. If you love really someone, his or her happiness is the thing that most matters.
GOOD SENTENCES
He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.
We crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a flower-plot under the drawing-room window.
It was beautiful - a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers.
Isabella - I believe she is eleven, a year younger than Cathy - lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as if witches were running red-hot needles into her.
The long light hair curled slightly on the temples; the eyes were large and serious; the figure almost too graceful.
She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the arm.
Her eyes began to glisten and her lids to twinkle.
Her lips were half asunder, as if she meant to speak, and she drew a breath; but it escaped in a sigh instead of a sentence.
My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.
There was a violent wind, as well as thunder, and either one or the other split a tree off at the corner of the building: a huge bough fell across the roof, and knocked down a portion of the east chimney-stack, sending a clatter of stones and soot into the kitchen-fire.
And her teeth chattered as she shrank closer to the almost extinguished embers.
It had got dusk, and the moon looked over the high wall of the court, causing undefined shadows to lurk in the corners of the numerous projecting portions of the building.
A ray fell on his features; the cheeks were sallow, and half covered with black whiskers; the brows lowering, the eyes deep-set and singular.
Linton eyed him with a droll expression - half angry, half laughing at his fastidiousness.
It was about the period that my narrative has reached: a bright frosty afternoon; the ground bare, and the road hard and dry.
Linton lavished on her the kindest caresses, and tried to cheer her by the fondest words; but, vaguely regarding the flowers, she let the tears collect on her lashes and stream down her cheeks unheeding.
The period of reflection succeeding this silly action compelled me to admit the necessity of smothering my pride and choking my wrath, and bestirring myself to remove its effects.
Her pretty face was wan and listless; her hair uncurled: some locks hanging lankly down, and some carelessly twisted round her head.
I notice, when I enter his presence, the muscles of his countenance are involuntarily distorted into an expression of hatred; partly arising from his knowledge of the good causes I have to feel that sentiment for him, and partly from original aversion.
I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and flung it back to me.
There was no sound through the house but the moaning wind, which shook the windows every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals, and the click of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of the candle.
He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow: if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult work successfully executed.
Good things lost amid a wilderness of weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far over-topped their neglected growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a wealthy soil, that might yield luxuriant crops under other and favourable circumstances.
He surveyed the carved front and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry-bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head: his private feelings entirely disapproved of the exterior of his new abode.
It was a close, sultry day: devoid of sunshine, but with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain.
Catherine’s face was just like the landscape - shadows and sunshine flitting over it in rapid succession; but the shadows rested longer, and the sunshine was more transient; and her poor little heart reproached itself for even that passing forgetfulness of its cares