Several hours later, this blessed clarity had not yet occurred. With the characteristic willing optimism of canines, Toby led us stumbling along the littered, uneven edge of the Thames, hauling us into every conceivable gutter, stream, undercut, and sewer-mouth, but without satisfactory results. Indeed, he ended up leading us back the way we had come, towards the dockyard upon which centred my evil memories. Only Mycroft's wheezing, I am sure -- for he was unaccustomed to physical exercise -- kept him from complaining as we neared a tunnel, actually a dried-up river-bed, we had passed once before --

Toby alerted, but with his head in the air, not with his nose to the ground.

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