Етюд у багряних тонах
Our Advertisement brings a Visitor.
Openthedoorslightly. Thatwilldo. Nowputthekeyontheinside.Thankyou! ThisisaqueeroldbookIpickedupatastallyesterday—‘DeJureinterGentes’—publishedinLatinatLiegeintheLowlands,in1642. Charles’headwasstillfirmonhisshoulderswhenthislittlebrown-backedvolumewasstruckoff.”
“Whoistheprinter?”
“PhilippedeCroy,whoeverhemayhavebeen. Onthefly-leaf,inveryfadedink,iswritten‘ExlibrisGuliolmiWhyte.’ IwonderwhoWilliamWhytewas. Somepragmaticalseventeenthcenturylawyer,Isuppose. Hiswritinghasalegaltwistaboutit. Herecomesourman,Ithink.”
Ashespoketherewasasharpringatthebell. SherlockHolmesrosesoftlyandmovedhischairinthedirectionofthedoor. Weheardtheservantpassalongthehall,andthesharpclickofthelatchassheopenedit.
“DoesDr.Watsonlivehere?”askedaclearbutratherharshvoice. Wecouldnotheartheservant’sreply,butthedoorclosed,andsomeonebegantoascendthestairs. Thefootfallwasanuncertainandshufflingone. Alookofsurprisepassedoverthefaceofmycompanionashelistenedtoit. Itcameslowlyalongthepassage,andtherewasafeebletapatthedoor.
“Comein,”Icried.
Atmysummons,insteadofthemanofviolencewhomweexpected,averyoldandwrinkledwomanhobbledintotheapartment. Sheappearedtobedazzledbythesuddenblazeoflight,andafterdroppingacurtsey,shestoodblinkingatuswithherblearedeyesandfumblinginherpocketwithnervous,shakyfingers.
