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, every man had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre kept himself very
much to himself, and only met people in the way of business.
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.
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