ne of them was marked with the name of 'Hyams,' who
was Oldacre's tailor. I then worked the lawn very carefully for signs
and traces, but this drought has made everything as hard as iron.
Nothing was to be seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged
through a low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile. All
that, of course, fits in with the official theory. I crawled about the
lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour
no wiser than before.

"Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined that also.
The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and discolorations, but
undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been removed, but there also the marks
were slight. There is no doubt about the stick belonging to our client.
He admits it. Footmarks of both men could be made out on the carpet,
but none of any third person, which again is a trick for the other
side. They were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
standstill.

"Only one little gleam of hope did I get--and yet it amounted to
nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had been
taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up into sealed
envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the police. They were
not, so far as I could judge, of any great value, nor did the bank-book
show that Mr. Oldacre was in such very affluent circumstances. But it
seemed to me that all the papers were not there. There were allusions to
some deeds--possibly the more valuable--which I could not find. This, of
course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade's argument
against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew that he would
shortly inherit it?

"Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent, I tried
my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her name, a little,
dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong eyes. She could tell
us something if she would--I am convinced of it. But she was as close as
wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished
her hand had withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at
half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and she could
hear nothing of what passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the
best of her belief his stick, in the hall. She had been awakened by the
alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been murdered. Had he
any enemies? Well,