morning immediately after the affair.”

 

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated.

 

It was the first announcement in the “Found” column. “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 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 advertisement.”

 

“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?”