“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very faded ink,

is written ‘Ex libris 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 violence 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 companion, 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