"There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to close
the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

"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."