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 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?”