them
trivial in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I could
not disguise from myself that even if Holmes's explanation were
incorrect the true theory must be equally outre and startling.

At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell, an
authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person
than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he,
however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense who
had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His
expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
understand."

"Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you would
care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red
bandanna handkerchief.

"And a whiskey-and-soda?"

"Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have
had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this
Norwood case?"

"I remember that you expressed one."

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn
tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the
middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken.
From the time that he left his brother's room he was never out of sight
of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed over roofs and
through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and my professional credit
is at stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance."

"We all need help sometimes," said I.

"Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in
a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat. I
have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw
the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is irregular in
his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on
the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I
don't care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by
which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business.
Here is the message."

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was
dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it
said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am cl