Этюд в багровых тонах / A Study in Scarlet

He discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police because the candle was burning. He pretended to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions. Now put yourself in that man’s place. He thinks that he lost the ring in the road. What will he do, then? He will eagerly read the evening papers. And he will read this advertisement. He will be overjoyed. Why fear? He will come. You will see him within an hour.”

“And then?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ll talk to him. Have you any arms?”

“I have my old revolver and a few cartridges.

“Clean it and load it. We must be ready for anything.”

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with the pistol, Holmes was playing violin.

“I have an answer to my American telegram,” he said, as I entered.

“And?” I asked eagerly.

“Put your pistol in your pocket,” he remarked. “When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten him.”

“It is eight o’clock now,” I said.

“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly. Now put the key on the inside[40 - put the key on the inside – вставьте ключ изнутри]. Thank you. 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.

“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.

“Come in,” I cried.

Instead of the man whom we expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She was blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our advertisement.

“A gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road, gentlemen,” she said; “It belongs to my daughter Sally. She went to the circus yesterday and lost it.

“Is that her ring?” I asked.

“Yes!” cried the old woman; “Sally will be very glad. That’s the ring.”

“And what is your address?” I inquired.

“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A long way from here.”

“The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman looked keenly at him.

“The gentleman asked me for my address,” she said.