"Yes, it is absurd," he went on, "for had I desired Joseph's fortune, I need not have killed him to acquire it. He told me the day before he died that he intended to disinherit Florence, and make me his heir, unless she broke with that secretary of his. I tried to dissuade him from this step, for we are not a mercenary lot, we Crawfords, and I thought I had made him reconsider his decision. Now, as it turns out, he persisted in his resolve, and was only prevented from carrying it out by this midnight assassin. We must find that villain, Mr. Burroughs! Do not consider expense; do anything you can to track him down."

"Then, Mr. Crawford," said I, "if you do not mind the outlay, I advise that we send for Fleming Stone. He is a detective of extraordinary powers, and I am quite willing to surrender the case to him."

Philip Crawford eyed me keenly.

"You give up easily, young man," he said banteringly.

"I know it seems so," I replied, "but I have my reasons. One is, that Fleming Stone makes important deductions from seemingly unimportant clues; and he holds that unless these clues are followed immediately, they are lost sight of and great opportunities are gone."

"H'm," mused Philip Crawford, stroking his strong, square chin.

"I don't care much for these spectacular detectives. Your man, I suppose, would glance at the gold bag, and at once announce the age, sex, and previous condition of servitude of its owner."

"Just what I have thought, Mr. Crawford. I'm sure he could do just that."

"And that's all the good it would do! That bag doesn't belong to the criminal."

"How do you know?"

"By common-sense. No woman came to the house in the dead of night and shot my brother, and then departed, taking her revolver with her. And again, granting a woman did have nerve and strength enough to do that, such a woman is not going off leaving her gold bag behind her as evidence!"

This speech didn't affect me much. It was pure conjecture.

Women are uncertain creatures, at best; and a woman capable of murder would be equally capable of losing her head afterward, and leaving circumstantial evidence behind her.

I was sorry Mr. Crawford didn't seem to take to the notion of sending for Stone. I wasn't weakening in the case so far as my confidence in my own ability was concerned; but I could see no direction to look except toward Florence Lloyd or Gregory Hall, or both. And so I was ready to give up.

"What do you think of Gregory Hall?" I said suddenly.

"As a man or as a suspect?" inquired Mr. Crawford.

"Both."

"Well, as a man, I think he's about the average, ordinary young American, of the secretary type. He has little real ambition, but he has had a good berth with Joseph, and he has worked fairly hard to keep it. As a suspect, the notion is absurd. He wasn't even in West Sedgwick."

"How do you know?"

"Because he went away at six that evening, and was in New York until nearly noon the next day."

"How do you know?"

Philip Crawford stared at me.

"He says so," I went on; "but no one can prove his statement. He refuses to say where he was in New York, or what he did. Now, merely as a supposition, why couldn't he have come out here - say on the midnight train - called on Mr. Joseph Crawford, and returned to New York before daylight?"

"Absurd! Why, he had no motive for killing Joseph."

"He had the same motive Florence would have. He knew of Mr.

Crawford's objection to their union, and he knew of his threat to change his will. Mr. Hall is not blind to the advantages of a fortune."

"Right you are, there! In fact, I always felt he was marrying Florence for her money. I had no real reason to think this, but somehow he gave me that impression."

"Me, too. Moreover, I found a late extra of a New York paper in Mr. Crawford's office. This wasn't on sale until about half past eleven that night, so whoever left it there must have come out from the city on that midnight train, or later."

A change came over Philip Crawford's face. Apparently he was brought to see the whole matter in a new light.

"What? What's that?" he cried excitedly, grasping his chair-arms and half rising. " A late newspaper! An extra!"

"Yes; the liner accident, you know."

"But - but - Gregory Hall! Why man, you're crazy! Hall is a good fellow. Not remarkably clever, perhaps, and a fortune-hunter, maybe, but not - surely not a murderer!"

"Don't take it so hard, Mr. Crawford," I broke in. "Probably.

Mr. Hall is innocent. But the late paper must have been left there by some one, after, say, one o'clock."

"This is awful! This is terrible!" groaned the poor man, and I couldn't help wondering if he had some other evidence against Hall that this seemed to corroborate.

Then, by an effort, he recovered himself, and began to talk in more normal tones.

"Now, don't let this new idea run away with you, Mr. Burroughs," he said. "If Hall had an interview with my brother that night, he would have learned from him that he intended to make a new will, but hadn't yet done so."

"Exactly; and that would constitute a motive for putting Mr.

Crawford out of the way before he could accomplish his purpose."

"But Joseph had already destroyed the will that favored Florence."

"We don't know that," I responded gravely. "And, anyway, if he had done so, Mr. Hall didn't know it. This leaves his motive unchanged."

"But the gold bag," said Mr. Crawford, apparently to get away - from the subject of Gregory Hall.

"If, as you say," I began, "that is Florence's bag - "

I couldn't go on. A strange sense of duty had forced those words from me, but I could say no more.

Fleming Stone might take the case if they wanted him to; or they might get some one else. But I could not go on, when the only clues discoverable pointed in a way I dared not look.

Philip Crawford was ghastly now. His face was working and he breathed quickly.