the slip, and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your father's
place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the
papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole
incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to
Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something
noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She
laid her little bundle of papers upon the table, and went her way, with a
promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger tips still
pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze
directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old
and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counselor, and, having lighted
it, he leaned back in his chair, with thick blue cloud wreaths spinning up
from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.