found her without her ring is more than I can think, he
being short enough at the best o' times, but more especially when he
has the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night along
with----"

"Is that her ring?" I asked.

"The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad woman
this night. That's the ring."

"And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

"13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

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

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for _my_ address," she said.
"Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

"And your name is----?"

"My name is Sawyer--her's 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 "Vie de Boheme." Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the
footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the
more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the s