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.”
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. We heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she opened it.
“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 someone began to ascend the stairs.
The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he listened to it.
It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble tap at the door.