Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distortedbaboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was theimpression which that face had produced upon me that I found itdifficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removedits owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke viceof the most malignant type， they were certainly those of EnochJ. Drebber， of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must bedone， and that the depravity of the victim was no condonment inthe eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did mycompanion’s hypothesis， that the man had been poisoned， appear.
I remembered how he had sniffed his lips， and had no doubt thathe had detected something which had given rise to the idea. Then，again， if not poison， what had caused the man’s death， since therewas neither wound nor marks of strangulation？ But， on the otherhand， whose blood was that which lay so thickly upon the floor？
There were no signs of a struggle， nor had the victim any weaponwith which he might have wounded an antagonist. As long asall these questions were unsolved， I felt that sleep would be noeasy matter， either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confidentmanner convinced me that he had already formed a theory whichexplained all the facts， though what it was I could not for aninstant conjecture.
He was very late in returning—so late that I knew that theconcert could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was onthe table before he appeared.
“It was magnificent，” he said， as he took his seat. “Do youremember what Darwin says about music？ He claims that the powerof producing and appreciating it existed among the human race longbefore the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why weare so subtly influenced by it. There are vague memories in our soulsof those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood.”
“That’s rather a broad idea，” I remarked.
“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpretNature，” he answered. “What’s the matter？ You’re not lookingquite yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”
“To tell the truth， it has，” I said. “I ought to be more casehardenedafter my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comradeshacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve.”
“I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulatesthe imagination； where there is no imagination there is no horror.
Have you seen the evening paper？”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mentionthe fact that when the man was raised up， a woman’s wedding ringfell upon the floor. It is just as well it does not.”
“Why？”
“Look at this advertisement，” he answered. “I had one sent toevery paper this morning immediately after the affair.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the placeindicated. It was the first announcement in the “Found” column.
“In Brixton Road， this morning，” it ran， “a plain gold weddingring， found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern andHolland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson， 221B， Baker Street， betweeneight and nine this evening.”
“Excuse my using your name，” he said. “If I used my own， someof these dunderheads would recognize it， and want to meddle inthe affair.”
“That is all right，” I answered. “But supposing anyone applies， Ihave no ring.”
“Oh yes， you have，” said he， handing me one. “This will do verywell. It is almost a facsimile.”
“And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.”
“Why， the man in the brown coat—our florid friend withthe square toes. If he does not come himself he will send anaccomplice.”
“Would he not consider it as too dangerous？”
“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct， and I have everyreason to believe that it is， this man would rather risk anythingthan lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it whilestooping over Drebber’s body， and did not miss it at the time.
After leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back，but found the police already in possession， owing to his own follyin leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk inorder to allay the suspicions which might have been aroused byhis appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that man’s place.
On thinking the matter over， it must have occurred to him that itwas possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving thehouse. What would he do then？ He would eagerly look out for theevening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found.
His eye， of course， would light upon this. He would be overjoyed.
Why should he fear a trap？ There would be no reason in his eyeswhy the finding of the ring should be connected with the murder.
He would come. He will come. You shall see him within an hour？”
“And then？” I asked.
“Oh， you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you anyarms？”
“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”
“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man；and though I shall take him unawares， it is as well to be ready foranything.”
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When Ireturned with the pistol， the table had been cleared， and Holmeswas engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping upon hisviolin.
“The plot thickens，” he said， as I entered； “I have just hadan answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is thecorrect one.”
“And that is—？ ” I asked eagerly.
“My fiddle would be the better for new strings，” he remarked.
“Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes， speak tohim in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten himby looking at him too hard.”
“It is eight o’clock now，” I said， glancing at my watch.
“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the doorslightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you！
This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday—De Jureinter Gentes—published in Latin at Liége in the Lowlands， in1642. Charles’ head was still firm on his shoulders when this littlebrown-backed volume was struck off.”
“Who is the printer？”