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           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. 

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Roboto Lora
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