Within the hour Holmes and I were in a cab, heading through eastern London. My companion's finger was bobbing through the air to a tune that he must have heard some nights earlier, and his eyes were closed. "Tell me," I asked him, "What are your theories on how to recover the box? Are we going to have a repeat of the Irene Adler method?"

"No," said Holmes, "I highly doubt that she keeps the box in her possession. She must have assumed that Mr. Bradstreet would inform the police, and that her house would be searched."

"So we're merely to question her for now?"

"Maybe," said he, "but I believe that I have an inkling to where our little treasure might be located. But it's purely theoretical, and I would be loath to act without any scrap of solid fact."

The street was in a very disreputable district. The alleys were lined with penny shops and opium dens, and yet my mind was still more drawn to the peculiarities of this case rather than the squalid surroundings. Sherlock Holmes, however, gave no heed to gloom about us and walked directly to Miss Dinard's lodgings. Five minutes later we were in front of her door. "Now, Watson, pay very close attention. This case could very well be solved after this single talk." He then rapped the door with his knuckles, and awaited his answer.

Just moments later, the door swung open to reveal Miss Dinard. I will admit that I was most surprised. She was not at all pretty, possessing thick black eyebrows, a misshapen nose, and a face that seemed to be at it's most natural in the midst of a frown. Her clothing was cheap, old, and dirty, all save a pair of new, glossy gloves that were strikingly out of place with the rest of her outfit. "Can I help you?" she said, her French accent very apparent.

My friend unexpectantly took a step foreword and grabbed the young lady's hand, who's dark face contorted. She jerked her hand from Holmes's, "You presume much, sir."

"Pardonnez-vous, Mademoiselle" said Holmes; "I was captivated by your beauty. My associate and I have some business that we would have you hear. May we step into your chambers?"

Her black eyes darted between the two of us and she thought the proposition over. "… Very well. But I must warn you, Mr…"

"Sherlock Holmes. And this is my old companion, John Watson."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I must warn you that if you try anything rash, I will call an alarm."

"Please, do not be under the wrong impression" said he, "I merely wish to ask you a few questions."

She eyed Holmes for another moment before allowing him in. Her chambers suited her clothing. The room was a mess, covered in filth, and I almost gagged from the foul airs. Holmes, however, looked about with great interest, especially to a large window at the far end of the room. "I came, miss, to ask about your employment with a Mr. Bradstreet."

"What?" she said, almost sounding as if she were afraid, "why would you want to know that?"
"I have been hired by his wife," said Sherlock Holmes, "who believed that you and he had a disreputable liaison."

With that, Miss Dinard almost laughed. "Well, she would have good reason to suspect so. I was the target of his lugubrious advances from the very day I made the stupid decision to take his employ."

"Oh?" said Holmes, "please elaborate."

"Very well. To tell you the truth, sir, I speak of this because his wife was of an agreeable disposition, and I enjoyed her presence. How such a good woman could be married to that beast of a man, I shall never know. When I first came to England, I had nearly nothing to my name. My parents both contracted cholera the first month we arrived and succumbed to the illness. I was left with only a few pounds, and needed to find work immediately. I soon met Mr. Bradstreet, who took me on as a maid. The conditions were less than ideal. I was given more work than most women of my station, and for pay which simply wasn't acceptable. However, I continued to do such labor, as my need for the money was great. You know how a woman in my position would need the funds."

"Of course. But as to why he fired you?"

"Fired me? Is that what he said? On the contrary, I personally left the household in disgust. Every day I worked the man would gaze at me hungrily, in the most disgusting fashion you could possibly fathom. I was uncomfortable, but I assumed he had the modicum of dignity to keep his passions within him. I was a fool to think so. Just last Tuesday, Mrs. Bradstreet had left the home for one week as to visit her aunt. Now, I was worried even before she had left, as Mr. Bradstreet is prone to enter terrible fits of rage when he drinks, yet I never once assumed that he would act the way he ultimately would. One evening, while I was cleaning the cutlery, Mr. Bradstreet walked from behind me and… Well, suffice to say he used his hands in a most inappropriate manner.

"'Mr. Bradstreet!" says I, 'what do you think you are doing?'

"But he was overcome in a drunken lust, and would not say a word. I managed to overcome his strength and run upstairs, where he would not follow me. I've not the foggiest idea why—I can only assume that the Lord was watching over me. I gathered my belongings and left the house that very night, vowing to myself that I would never return."

"I see. You say that you were on good terms with Mrs. Bradstreet?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. I could do nothing to hurt the woman."

"When you left the home, you only took your possessions? Nothing more?"

"Of course not. I would never steal from a man, even from him. Despite my surroundings, I do have my dignity."

"So you didn't, by any chance, steal a box?"

"No," she said, her voice gaining in suspicion.

"I would have it that you wouldn't lie to me, Miss Dinard. For honestly, I already know where the box is."

Miss Dinard gave a little gasp and a hop. She shook her head furiously, pointing an accusatory finger at Sherlock Holmes. "How dare you accuse me of such an act! You should be ashamed of yourself! Leave my home at once!"

Knowing that an enraged woman can be one of the most vicious beasts of all, my companion and I quickly made our leave of the house. When we were out on the streets, I turned to my friend with some astonishment on my face. "Holmes, I have often not deducted or observed at your capacity, but how is it possible that you were able to solve the location of the jewelbox in so little time?"

"A keen eye for details," Sherlock replied, "but we mustn't trouble ourselves with such a trifle like a jewelbox anymore. There is much more at stake here. My good Watson, what time is it?"

"Why, it's almost seven thirty."

"Very good. Now, Watson, here is what I want you to do. Go home and enjoy the rest of your evening with your family. When the clock strikes ten, I want you to leave your lodgings and come to Pall Mall to meet me there. Bring your revolver. I have a feeling that you might need it." He nodded to me, and then walked off, in no direction to the cab, assumedly to continue his search.