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.
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