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. You remember that terrible
murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in '87? Was there
ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?"

"It is true."

"Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this man is
lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now be presented
against him, and all further investigation has served to strengthen it.
By the way, there is one curious little point about those papers which
may serve us as the starting-point for an inquiry. On looking over the
bank-book I found that the low state of the balance was principally due
to large checks which have been made out during the last year to Mr.
Cornelius. I confess that I should be interested to know who this
Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such very large
transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the affair?
Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip to correspond
with these large payments. Failing any other indication, my researches
must now take the direction of an inquiry at the bank for the gentleman
who has cashed these checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our
case will end ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will
certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard."

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but
when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his bright
eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The carpet round his
chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with the early editions of
the morning papers. An ope