legram. My view of the case is the correct one."

"And that is?" I asked eagerly.

"My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put your
pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary
way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too
hard."

"It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.

"Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly.
That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a
queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--'De Jure inter
Gentes'--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles'
head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed
volume was struck off."

"Who is the printer?"

"Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very
faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who William
Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His
writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think."

As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose
softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the
servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
opened it.

"Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We
could not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one
began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling
one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he
listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble
tap at the door.

"Come in," I cried.

At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very
old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be
dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she
stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket
with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face
had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to
keep my countenance.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she said,
dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It
belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth,
which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he'd say if
he come 'ome and