"Here's a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the
house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!"

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
quietly.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
the theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured
us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate
jewel case. It's true you set us on the right track; but you'll
own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is
all this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,--no
room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at
Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message
arrived. What d'you think the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes,
dryly.

"No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth
half a million missing. How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to