“Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up noscent, I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is hername—a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelongeyes. She could tell us something if she would—I am convincedof it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlanein at half-past nine. She wished her hand had withered before shehad done so. She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room wasat the other end of the house, and she could hear nothing of whathad passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of herhad been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor, dear masterhad certainly been murdered. Had he any enemies? Well, everyman had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much tohimself, and only met people in the way of business. She had seenthe buttons, and was sure that they belonged to the clothes whichhe had worn last night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it hadnot rained for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time shereached the spot, nothing could be seen but flames. She and all thefiremen smelled the burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothingof the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre’s private affairs.
“So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of a failure. Andyet—and yet—” he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm ofconviction— “I know it’s all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There issomething that has not come out, and that housekeeper knowsit. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goeswith guilty knowledge. However, there’s no good talking any moreabout it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our way Ifear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in thatchronicle of our successes which I foresee that a patient publicwill sooner or later have to endure.”
“Surely,” said I, “the man’s appearance would go far with anyjury?”
“That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You rememberthat terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get himoff in ‘87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-schoolyoung man?”
“It is true.”
“Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, thisman is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can nowbe presented against him, and all further investigation has servedto strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little point aboutthose papers which may serve us as the starting-point for aninquiry. On looking over the bank-book I found that the low stateof the balance was principally due to large checks which have beenmade out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I confess thatI should be interested to know who this Mr. Cornelius may bewith whom a retired builder has such very large transactions. Is itpossible that he has had a hand in the affair? Cornelius might be abroker, but we have found no scrip to correspond with these largepayments. Failing any other indication, my researches must nowtake the direction of an inquiry at the bank for the gentleman whohas cashed these checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our casewill end ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which willcertainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard.”
I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep thatnight, but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale andharassed, his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows roundthem. The carpet round his chair was littered with cigaretteendsand with the early editions of the morning papers. An opentelegram lay upon the table.
“What do you think of this, Watson?” he asked, tossing it across.
It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:
Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane’s guiltdefinitely established. Advise you to abandon case.
LESTRADE.
“This sounds serious,” said I.
“It is Lestrade’s little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes answered,with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to abandon thecase. After all, important fresh evidence is a two-edged thing,and may possibly cut in a very different direction to that whichLestrade imagines. Take your breakfast, Watson, and we will goout together and see what we can do. I feel as if I shall need yourcompany and your moral support today.”
My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of hispeculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permithimself no food, and I have known him presume upon his ironstrength until he has fainted from pure inanition. “At presentI cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,” he wouldsay in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behindhim, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbidsightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, whichwas just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gatesLestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner grosslytriumphant.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Haveyou found your tramp?” he cried.
“I have formed no conclusion whatever,” my companion answered.
“But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct,so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of youthis time, Mr. Holmes.”
“You certainly have the air of something unusual having occurred,”
said Holmes.
Lestrade laughed loudly.
“You don’t like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,”
said he. “A man can’t expect always to have it his own way, can he,Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I think Ican convince you once for all that it was John McFarlane who didthis crime.”
He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.
“This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get hishat after the crime was done,” said he. “Now look at this.” Withdramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light exposeda stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the matchnearer, I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the well-markedprint of a thumb.
“Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, I am doing so.”
