She had seen
the buttons, and was sure that they belonged to the clothes which
he had worn last night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it had
not rained for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time she
reached the spot, nothing could be seen but flames. She and all
the firemen smelled the burned flesh from inside it. She knew
nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.
"So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure. And
yet -- and yet --" he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of
conviction-- "I know it's all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There
is something that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows
it. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only
goes with guilty knowledge. However, there's no good talking
any more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes
our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not
figure in that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a
patient public will sooner or later have to endure."
"Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with
any jury?"
"That is a dangerous argument, my dear Watson.
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