In the early dawn I woke with a start and was surprised to findhim standing by my bedside， clad in a rude sailor dress with a peajacketand a coarse red scarf round his neck.
“I am off down the river， Watson，” said he. “I have been turningit over in my mind， and I can see only one way out of it. It isworth trying， at all events.”
“Surely I can come with you， then？” said I.
“No； you can be much more useful if you will remain here asmy representative. I am loath to go， for it is quite on the cardsthat some message may come during the day， though Wiggins wasdespondent about it last night. I want you to open all notes andtelegrams， and to act on your own judgment if any news shouldcome. Can I rely upon you？”
“Most certainly.”
“I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me， for I canhardly tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck， however，I may not be gone so very long. I shall have news of some sort orother before I get back.”
I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening theStandard， however， I found that there was a fresh allusion to thebusiness.
“With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy，” it remarked，“we have reason to believe that the matter promises to be evenmore complex and mysterious than was originally supposed. Freshevidence has shown that it is quite impossible that Mr. ThaddeusSholto could have been in any way concerned in the matter. Heand the housekeeper， Mrs. Bernstone， were both released yesterdayevening. It is believed， however， that the police have a clue as tothe real culprits， and that it is being prosecuted by Mr. AthelneyJones， of Scotland Yard， with all his well-known energy and sagacity.
Further arrests may be expected at any moment.”
“That is satisfactory so far as it goes，” thought I. “Friend Sholtois safe， at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be， though itseems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made ablunder.”
I tossed the paper down upon the table， but at that moment myeye caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in thisway：
“Lost. —Whereas Mordecai Smith， boatman， and his son Jim， leftSmith’s Wharf at or about three o’clock last Tuesday morning in thesteam launch Aurora， black with two red stripes， funnel black with awhite band， the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who cangive information to Mrs. Smith， at Smith’s Wharf， or at 221b BakerStreet， as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and thelaunch Aurora.”
This was clearly Holmes’s doing. The Baker Street address wasenough to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious， because itmight be read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more thanthe natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.
It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door，or a sharp step passed in the street， I imagined that it was eitherHolmes returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried toread， but my thoughts would wander off to our strange quest andto the ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing.
Could there be， I wondered， some radical flaw in my companion’sreasoning？ Might he not be suffering from some huge selfdeception？
Was it not possible that his nimble and speculativemind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises？ I hadnever known him to be wrong， and yet the keenest reasoner mayoccasionally be deceived. He was likely， I thought， to fall into errorthrough the over-refinement of his logic—his preference for a subtleand bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace onelay ready to his hand. Yet， on the other hand， I had myself seen theevidence， and I had heard the reasons for his deductions. When Ilooked back on the long chain of curious circumstances， many ofthem， trivial in themselves but all tending in the same direction， Icould not disguise from myself that even if Holmes’s explanationwere incorrect the true theory must be equally outré and startling.
At three o’clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal atthe 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 masterfulprofessor of common sense who had taken over the case soconfidently at Upper Norwood. His expression was downcast， andhis 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 youwould 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 facewith a red bandanna handkerchief.
“And a whiskey and soda？”
“Well， half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year， and I havehad a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory aboutthis Norwood case？”
“I remember that you expressed one.”
“Well， I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawntightly round Mr. Sholto， sir， when pop he went through a holein the middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could notbe shaken. From the time that he left his brother’s room he wasnever out of sight of someone or other. So it could not be he whoclimbed over roofs and through trapdoors. It’s a very dark case，and my professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of alittle assistance.”
“We all need help sometimes，” said I.
“Your friend， Mr. Sherlock Holmes， is a wonderful man， sir，” saidhe in a husky and confidential voice. “He’s a man who is not to bebeat. I have known that young man go into a good many cases， butI never saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. Heis irregular in his methods and a little quick perhaps in jumping attheories， but， on the whole， I think he would have made a mostpromising officer， and I don’t care who knows it. I have had a wirefrom him this morning， by which I understand that he has gotsome clue to this Sholto business. Here is his message.”
He took the telegram out of his pocket and handed it to me. Itwas dated from Poplar at twelve o’clock.