“My name is Sawyer—hers 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 protestations of gratitude the old crone packed

it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs.

 

Sherlock 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 walking 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