“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 wonderwho William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth-centurylawyer， I suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Herecomes our man， I think.”
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmesrose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. Weheard the servant pass along the hall， and the sharp click of thelatch as she opened it.
“Does Dr. Watson live here？” asked a clear but rather harshvoice. We could not hear the servant’s reply， but the door closed，and someone began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was anuncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over theface of my companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along thepassage， and there was a feeble tap at the door.
“Come in，” I cried.
At my summons， instead of the man of violence whom weexpected， a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into theapartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light，and after dropping a curtsey， she stood blinking at us with her blearedeyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous， shaky fingers. I glancedat my companion， and his face had assumed such a disconsolateexpression that it was all I could do to keep my countenance.
The old crone drew out an evening paper， and pointed at ouradvertisement. “It’s this as has brought me， good gentlemen，” shesaid， dropping another curtsey； “a gold wedding ring in the BrixtonRoad. It belongs to my girl Sally， as was married only this timetwelvemonth， which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat，and what He’d say if he come ‘ome and found her without herring is more than I can think， he being short enough at the best o’
times， but more especially when he has the drink. If it please you，she went to the circus last night along with——”
“Is that her ring？” I asked.
“The Lord be thanked！” cried the old woman； “Sally will be aglad woman this night. That’s the ring.”
“And what may your address be？” I inquired， taking up a pencil.
“13， Duncan Street， Houndsditch. A weary way from here.”
“The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus andHoundsditch，” said Sherlock Holmes sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from herlittle red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman asked me for my address，”
she said. “Sally lives in lodgings at 3， Mayfield Place， Peckham.”
“And your name is——？”
“My name is Sawyer—hers is Dennis， which Tom Dennismarried her—and a smart， clean lad， too， as long as he’s at sea， andno steward in the company more thought of； but when on shore，what with the women and what with liquor shops——”
“Here is your ring， Mrs. Sawyer，” I interrupted， in obedience toa sign from my companion； “it clearly belongs to your daughter，and I am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner.”
With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitudethe old crone packed it away in her pocket， and shuffled off downthe stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment thatshe was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a fewseconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. “I’ll follow her，” hesaid， hurriedly； “she must be an accomplice， and will lead me tohim. Wait up for me.” The hall door had hardly slammed behindour visitor before Holmes had descended the stair. Lookingthrough the window I could see her walking feebly along the otherside， while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind.
“Either his whole theory is incorrect，” I thought to myself， “orelse he will be led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was noneed for him to ask me to wait up for him， for I felt that sleep wasimpossible until I heard the result of his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how longhe might be， but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping overthe pages of Henri Murger’s “Vie de Bohème”. Ten o’clock passed，and I heard the footsteps of the maid as she pattered off to bed.
Eleven， and the more stately tread of the landlady passed my door，bound for the same destination. It was close upon twelve beforeI heard the sharp sound of his latchkey. The instant he entered Isaw by his face that he had not been successful. Amusement andchagrin seemed to be struggling for the mastery， until the formersuddenly carried the day， and he burst into a hearty laugh.
“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world，”
he cried， dropping into his chair； “I have chaffed them so muchthat they would never have let me hear the end of it. I can affordto laugh， because I know that I will be even with them in the longrun.”
“What is it then？” I asked.
“Oh， I don’t mind telling a story against myself. That creaturehad gone a little way when she began to limp and show every signof being footsore. Presently she came to a halt， and hailed a fourwheelerwhich was passing. I managed to be close to her so asto hear the address， but I need not have been so anxious， for shesang it out loud enough to be heard at the other side of the street，‘Drive to 13， Duncan Street， Houndsditch，’ she cried. This beginsto look genuine， I thought， and having seen her safely inside， Iperched myself behind. That’s an art which every detective shouldbe an expert at. Well， away we rattled， and never drew rein untilwe reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came tothe door， and strolled down the street in an easy， lounging way. Isaw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down， and I saw him openthe door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. WhenI reached him， he was groping about frantically in the empty cab，and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that everI listened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger， and Ifear it will be some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring atNumber 13 we found that the house belonged to a respectablepaperhanger， named Keswick， and that no one of the name eitherof Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there.”
