“Most certainly.”

“I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can hardly 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 or other before I get back.”

I had heard nothing of him by breakfast time. On opening the Standard, however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the business.

With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy [it remarked]

we have reason to believe that the matter promises to be

even more complex and mysterious than was originally

supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been in any way

concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs.

Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening. It is believed, however, that the police have a clue as to the real

culprits, and that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney

Jones, 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 Sholto is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be though it seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a blunder.”

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in this way:

LOST — Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son Jim

left Smith’s Wharf at or about three o‘clock last Tuesday

morning in the steam launch Aurora, black with two red

stripes, funnel black with a white band, the sum of five

pounds will be paid to anyone who can give information to

Mrs. Smith, at Smith’s Wharf, or at 22lB, Baker Street, as

to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the

launch Aurora.

This was clearly Holmes’s doing. The Baker Street address was enough to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious because it might be read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the 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 either Holmes returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion’s reasoning? Might he not be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises? I had never known him to be wrong, and yet the keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought, to fall into error through the over-refinement of his logic — his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the reasons for his deductions. 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.