When I looked back on the long chain of curious
circumstances, many of 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.
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