LITMIR.BIZ

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time is from ten at night to six in the morning. At one o’clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher and we stood together and talked a little. After that-maybe about two or a little after-I decided to take a look round. The road was dirty and lonely. I met nobody all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. Suddenly I saw a light in the window of that house. When I came to the door…”

      “You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” my companion interrupted. “Why did you do that?”

      Rance stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost amazement.

      “Yes, that’s true, sir,” he said; “but how do you know it? When I got up to the door it was so still and so lonesome, that I decided to take somebody with me, maybe Murcher. And I walked back. But I saw no one.”

      “There was no one in the street?”

      “Not a soul, sir. Then I went back and opened the door. All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was burning. There was a candle on the mantelpiece-a red wax one-and I saw…”

      “Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and opened the kitchen door, and then…”

      John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face.

      “Where were you, sir, that time? You saw all that!” he cried. “It seems to me that you know too much.”

      Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.

      “Don’t arrest me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade can say that as well. Go on, though. What did you do next?”

      “I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. Murcher and two more arrived.”

      “Was the street empty then?”

      “Only a drunker. I saw many drunkers in my life,” he said, “but not like that one. He was at the gate when I came out, he was leaning up against the railings, and singing a song. He couldn’t stand at all.”

      “What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “His face-his dress-didn’t you notice them?”

      “He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled round[38]…”

      “What became of him?” cried Holmes.

      “I think he found his way home,” the policeman said.

      “How was he dressed?”

      “A brown overcoat.”

      “Had he a whip in his hand?”

      “A whip-no.”

      “Did you see or hear a cab?” asked Holmes.

      “No.”

      “There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion said. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never became a sergeant. That man is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are seeking. Come along, Doctor.”

      “The fool,” Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings.

      “Holmes, it is true that the description of this man tallies with your idea of the second person in this mystery. But why did the criminal come back to the house again?”

      “The ring, the ring. We will use that ring, Doctor, to catch him. I must thank you for this case. I was lazy enough to go, but you forced me! A study in scarlet, eh? Let’s use a little art jargon. There’s the scarlet thread of murder through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it.”

      Chapter V

      Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

      I lay down upon the sofa and tried to sleep. But every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered man.

      Was that man poisoned? Holmes sniffed his lips, and probably detected something. And if not poison, what caused the man’s death? There was neither wound nor marks of strangulation. But, on the other hand, whose blood was there upon the floor? We saw no signs of a struggle, the victim did not have any weapon. My friend’s quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he had a theory which explained all the facts.

      Holmes came very late. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.

      “What’s the matter?” he answered. “Does this Brixton Road affair trouble you?”

      “To tell the truth, it does,” I said.

      “I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the imagination. Did you see the evening paper?”

      “No.”

      “It tells about the affair. And it does not mention the woman’s wedding ring. That’s good.”

      “Why?”

      “Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I sent it to every paper in the morning immediately after the affair.”

      He gave me the newspaper.

      “In Brixton Road, this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway between the ‘White Hart’ Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.”

      “Excuse me. I used your name,” he said.

      “That is all right,” I answered. “But I have no ring.”

      “Oh yes, you have,” said he. And he gave me one. “This will do very well[39].”

      “And who will answer this advertisement?”

      “The man in the brown coat-our florid friend with the square toes. If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice.”

      “Isn’t that dangerous for him?”

      “Not at all. I think that this man will rather risk anything than lose the ring. He dropped it when he stooped over Drebber’s body. Then he left the house. He discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police because the candle was burning. He pretended to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions. Now put yourself in that man’s place. He thinks that he lost the ring in the road. What will he do, then? He will eagerly read the evening papers. And he will read this advertisement. He will be overjoyed. Why fear? He will come. You will see him within an hour.”

      “And then?” I asked.

      “Oh, I’ll talk to him. Have you any arms?”

      “I have my old revolver and a few cartridges.”

      “Clean it and load it. We must be ready for anything.”

      I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with the pistol, Holmes was playing violin.

      “I have an answer to my American telegram,” he said, as I entered.

      “And?” I asked eagerly.

      “Put your pistol in your pocket,” he remarked. “When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten him.”

      “It is eight o’clock now,” I said.

      “Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly. Now put the key on the inside[40]. Thank you. 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.

      “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. There was a feeble tap at the door.

      “Come in,” I cried.

      Instead of the man whom we expected,

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