“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?”

“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that man’s place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do then? He would eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. overjoyed Why should he fear a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should be connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see him within an hour.”

“And then?” I asked.

“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?”

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

“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man; and though I 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’s head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume was struck off.”

“Who is the printer?”

“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the flyleaf, 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.”

Gudrun was very cold and repelling. She knew the common people hated the school.

‘Ay, you do, then! I’ve heard so much, one way and the other. It’s nice to know what those that’s in it feel. But opinions vary, don’t they? Mr Crich up at Highclose is all for it. Ay, poor man, I’m afraid he’s not long for this world. He’s very poorly.’

‘Is he worse?’ asked Ursula.

‘Eh, yes—since they lost Miss Diana. He’s gone off to a shadow. Poor man, he’s had a world of trouble.’

‘Has he?’ asked Gudrun, faintly ironic.

‘He has, a world of trouble. And as nice and kind a gentleman as ever you could wish to meet. His children don’t take after him.’

‘I suppose they take after their mother?’ said Ursula.

‘In many ways.’ Mrs Krik lowered her voice a little. ‘She was a proud haughty lady when she came into these parts—my word, she was that! She mustn’t be looked at, and it was worth your life to speak to her.’ The woman made a dry, sly face.

‘Did you know her when she was first married?’

‘Yes, I knew her. I nursed three of her children. And proper little terrors they were, little fiends—that Gerald was a demon if ever there was one, a proper demon, ay, at six months old.’ A curious malicious, sly tone came into the woman’s voice.

‘Really,’ said Gudrun.

‘That wilful, masterful—he’d mastered one nurse at six months. Kick, and scream, and struggle like a demon. Many’s the time I’ve pinched his little bottom for him, when he was a child in arms. Ay, and he’d have been better if he’d had it pinched oftener. But she wouldn’t have them corrected—no–o, wouldn’t hear of it. I can remember the rows she had with Mr Crich, my word. When he’d got worked up, properly worked up till he could stand no more, he’d lock the study door and whip them. But she paced up and down all the while like a tiger outside, like a tiger, with very murder in her face. She had a face that could LOOK death. And when the door was opened, she’d go in with her hands lifted—“What have you been doing to MY children, you coward.” She was like one out of her mind. I believe he was frightened of her; he had to be driven mad before he’d lift a finger. Didn’t the servants have a life of it! And didn’t we used to be thankful when one of them caught it. They were the torment of your life.’

‘Really!’ said Gudrun.

‘In every possible way. If you wouldn’t let them smash their pots on the table, if you wouldn’t let them drag the kitten about with a string round its neck, if you wouldn’t give them whatever they asked for, every mortal thing—then there was a shine on, and their mother coming in asking—“What’s the matter with him? What have you done to him? What is it, Darling?” And then she’d turn on you as if she’d trample you under her feet. But she didn’t trample on me. I was the only one that could do anything with her demons—for she wasn’t going to be bothered with them herself. No, SHE took no trouble for them. But they must just have their way, they mustn’t be spoken to. And Master Gerald was the beauty. I left when he was a year and a half, I could stand no more. But I pinched his little bottom for him when he was in arms, I did, when there was no holding him, and I’m not sorry I did—’