“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call himself,” said Holmes, firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!” said she. “My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world.” She closed the door behind us, and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. “Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant,” she said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.
“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said, in an unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street—”
“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companion, firmly. “You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.”
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his formidable pursuer. “I guess
