Oh, no!" said Bonaparte.
He now walked about the room, diving his fingers in everywhere: sticking them into the great crevices in the wall and frightening out the spiders; rapping them against the old plaster till it cracked and fell in pieces; peering up the chimney, till the soot dropped on his bald head and blackened it.

He felt in little blue bags; he tried to raise the hearth-stone; he shook each book, till the old leaves fell down in showers on the floor.
It was getting dark, and Bonaparte stood with his finger on his nose reflecting.

Finally he walked to the door, behind which hung the trousers and waistcoat the dead man had last worn.

He had felt in them, but hurriedly, just after the funeral the day before; he would examine them again.

Sticking his fingers into the waistcoat pockets, he found in one corner a hole.