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 whisky 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 someone or other. So it could
not be he who climbed over roofs and through trapdoors. 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.
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