Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor
Our morning’s exertions had been too much
for my weak health, and I was tired out in the af-
ternoon. After Holmes’ departure for the concert, I
lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a
couple of hours’ sleep. It was a useless attempt. My
mind had been too much excited by all that had
occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises
crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes
I saw before me the distorted baboon-like counte-
nance of the murdered man. So sinister was the
impression which that face had produced upon me
that I found it difficult to feel anything but grati-
tude for him who had removed its owner from the
world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the
most malignant type, they were certainly those of
Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized
that justice must be done, and that the depravity of
the victim was no condonement in the eyes of the
law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary
did my companion’s hypothesis, that the man had
been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he had
sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had de-
tected something which had given rise to the idea.
Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the
man’s death, since there was neither wound nor
marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand,
whose blood was that which lay so thickly upon
the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor
had the victim any weapon with which he might
have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these
questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be
no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His
quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he
had already formed a theory which explained all
the facts, though what it was I could not for an
instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning—so late, that I
knew that the concert could not have detained him
all the time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.
“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his
seat. “Do you remember what Darwin says about
music? He claims that the power of producing and
appreciating it existed among the human race long
before the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps
that is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There
are vague memories in our souls of those misty
centuries when the world was in its childhood.”
“That’s rather a broad idea,” I remarked.
“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they
are to interpret Nature,” he answered. “What’s the
matter? You’re not looking quite yourself. This
Brixton Road affair has upset you.”
“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to
be more case-hardened after my Afghan experi-
ences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at
Maiwand without losing my nerve.”
“I can understand. There is a mystery about
this which stimulates the imagination; where there
is no imagination there is no horror. Have you seen
the evening paper?”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It
does not mention the fact that when the man was
raised up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon the
floor. It is just as well it does not.”
“Why?”
“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I
had one sent to every paper this morning immedi-
ately after the affair.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced
at the place indicated. It was the first announce-
ment in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road,
this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring,
found in the roadway between the ‘White Hart’ Tav-
ern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221b,
Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.”
“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I
used my own some of these dunderheads would
recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”
“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing
anyone applies, I have no ring.”
“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one.
“This will do very well. It is almost a facsimile.”
“And who do you expect will answer this ad-
vertisement.”
“Why, the man in the brown coat—our florid
friend with the square toes. If he does not come
himself he will send an accomplice.”
“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”
“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct,
and I have every reason to believe that it is, this
man would rather risk anything than lose the ring.
According to my notion he dropped it while stoop-
ing over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the
time. After leaving the house he discovered his loss
and hurried back, but found the police already in
possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the
candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk
in order to allay the suspicions which might have
been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now
put yourself in that man’s place. On thinking the
matter over, it must have occurred to him that it
was possible that he had lost the ring in the road
after leaving the house. What would he do, then?
He would eagerly look out for the evening papers
in the hope of seeing it among the articles found.
His eye, of course, would light upon this. He would
be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
would be no reason in his eyes why the finding
of the ring should be connected with the murder.
He would come. He will come. You shall see him
within an hour.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then.
Have you any arms?”
“I have my old service revolver and a few car-
tridges.”
“You had better clean it and load it. He will
be a desperate man, and though I shall take him
unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything.”
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice.
When I returned with the pistol the table had been
cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his favourite
occupation of scraping upon his violin.
“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I
have just had an answer to my American telegram.
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 min-
utes. 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 lib-
ris 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 vio-
lence 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 compan-
ion, 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 Brix-
ton 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 comes ’ome and found her without her ring
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 a glad 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 and Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes
sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly
at him from her little red-rimmed eyes. “The gen-
tleman asked me for my address,” she said. “Sally
lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”
“And your name is—?”
“My name is Sawyer—her’s is Dennis, which
Tom Dennis married her—and a smart, clean
lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no 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 to a 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 protesta-
tions of gratitude the old crone packed it away in
her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sher-
lock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she
was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in
a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat.
“I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly; “she must be
an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up
for me.” The hall door had hardly slammed behind
our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair.
Looking through the window I could see her walk-
ing feebly along the other side, while her pursuer
dogged her some little distance behind. “Either his
whole theory is incorrect,” I thought to myself, “or
else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery.”
There was no need for him to ask me to wait up
for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until I
heard the result of his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no
idea how long he might be, but I sat stolidly puffing
at my pipe and skipping over the pages of Henri
Murger’s Vie de Boheme. ' Ten o’clock passed, and I
heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered off
to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the
landlady passed my door, bound for the same desti-
nation. It was close upon twelve before I heard the
sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered
I saw by his face that he had not been successful.
Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling
for the mastery, until the former suddenly 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 much that they would never
have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh,
because I know that I will be even with them in the
long run.”
“What is it then?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself.
That creature had gone a little way when she be-
gan to limp and show every sign of being foot-sore.
Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-
wheeler which was passing. I managed to be close
to her so as to hear the address, but I need not have
been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough
to be heard at the other side of the street, ‘Drive to
13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’ she cried. This
begins to look genuine, I thought, and having seen
her safely inside, I perched myself behind. That’s
an art which every detective should be an expert
at. Well, away we rattled, and never drew rein until
we reached the street in question. I hopped off
before we came to the door, and strolled down the
street in an easy, lounging way. I saw the cab pull
up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him open
the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out
though. When I reached him he was groping about
frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to
the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I
listened to. There was no sign or trace of his pas-
senger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets
his fare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found that
the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger,
named Keswick, and that no one of the name either
of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there.”
“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement,
“that that tottering, feeble old woman was able to
get out of the cab while it was in motion, without
either you or the driver seeing her?”
“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock
Holmes, sharply. “We were the old women to be
so taken in. It must have been a young man, and
an active one, too, besides being an incomparable
actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he
was followed, no doubt, and used this means of
giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are
after is not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has
friends who are ready to risk something for him.
Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
advice and turn in.”
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed
his injunction. I left Holmes seated in front of the
smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the
night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
violin, and knew that he was still pondering over
the strange problem which he had set himself to
unravel.
