"I do and I don't," he said. "Personally, I think both those young people are innocent, but if I am correct, no harm will be done by a further investigation of their movements on Tuesday night. I think Mr. Hall ought to tell where he was that night, if only in self-defense. If he proves he was in New York, and did not come out here, it will not only clear him, but also Florence. For I think no one suspects her of anything more than collusion with him."

Of course I had no mind to tell these men what Florence had told me confidentially about Mr. Hall's possible occupation Tuesday evening. They were determined to investigate that very question, and so, if her surmise were correct, it would disclose itself.

"Very well," I said, after listening to a little further discussion, which was really nothing but repetition, "then I will consult with Mr. Parmalee, and we will try to make further investigation of Mr. Hall's doings. But I'm ready to admit that. it does not look easy to me to discover anything of importance.

Mr. Hall is a secretive man, and unless we have a definite charge against him it is difficult to make him talk."

"Well, you can certainly learn something," said Mr. Goodrich.

"At any rate devote a few days to the effort. I have confidence in you, Mr. Burroughs, and I don't think you need call in a man whom you consider your superior. But if you'll excuse me for making a suggestion, let me ask you to remember that a theory of Hall's guilt also possibly implicates Miss Lloyd. You will probably discover this for yourself, but don't let your natural chivalry toward a woman, and perhaps a personal element in this case, blind you to the facts."

Although he put it delicately, I quite understood that he had noticed my personal interest in Florence Lloyd, and so, as it was my duty to disregard that interest in my work, I practically promised to remember his injunction.

It was then that I admitted to myself the true state of my mind.

I felt sure Florence was innocent, but I knew appearances were strongly against her, and I feared I should bungle the case because of the very intensity of my desire not to. And I thought that Fleming Stone, in spite of evidence, would be able to prove what I felt was the truth, that Florence was guiltless of all knowledge of or complicity in her uncle's death.

However, I had promised to go on with the quest, and I urged myself on, with the hope that further developments might clear Florence, even if they more deeply implicated Gregory Hall.

I went back to the inn, and spent some time in thinking over the matter, and methodically recording my conclusions. And, while I thought, I became more and more convinced that, whether Florence connived or not, Hall was the villain, and that he had actually slain his employer because he had threatened to disinherit his niece.

Perhaps when Hall came to the office, late that night, Mr.

Crawford was already engaged in drawing up the new will, and in order to purloin it Hall had killed him, not knowing that the other will was already destroyed. And destroyed it must be, for surely Hall had no reason to steal or suppress the will that favored Florence.

As a next move, I decided to interview Mr. Hall.

Such talks as I had had with him so far, had been interrupted and unsatisfactory. Now I would see him alone, and learn something from his manner and appearance.

I found him, as I had expected, in the office of his late employer. He was surrounded with papers, and was evidently very busy, but he greeted me with a fair show of cordiality, and offered me a chair.

"I want to talk to you plainly, Mr. Hall," I said, "and as I see you're busy, I will be as brief as possible."

"I've been expecting you," said he calmly. "In fact, I'm rather surprised that you haven't been here before."

"Why?" said I, eying him closely.

"Only because the inquiries made at the inquest amounted to very little, and I assumed you would question all the members of the household again."

"I'm not sure that's necessary," I responded, following his example in adopting a light, casual tone. "I have no reason to suspect that the servants told other than the exact truth. I have talked to both the ladies, and now I've only a few questions to put to you."

He looked up, surprised at my self-satisfied air.

"Have you nailed the criminal?" he asked, with a greater show of interest than he had before evinced.

"Not exactly nailed him, perhaps. But we fancy we are on the scent."

"Resent what?" he asked, looking blank.

"I didn't say `resent.' I said, we are on the scent."

"Oh, yes. And in what direction does it lead you?"

"In your direction," I said, willing to try what effect bluntness might have upon this composed young man.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, as if he hadn't heard me.

"Evidences are painting toward you as the criminal," I said, determined to disturb his composure if I could.

Instead of showing surprise or anger, he gave a slight smile, as one would at an idea too ridiculous to be entertained for an instant. Somehow, that smile was more convincing to me than any verbal protestation could have been.

Then I realized that the man was doubtless a consummate actor, and he had carefully weighed the value of that supercilious smile against asseverations of innocence. So I went on:

"When did you first learn of the accident to the Atlantic liner, the North America?"

"I suppose you mean that question for a trap," he said coolly;

"but I haven't the least objection to answering it. I bought a late 'extra' in New York City the night of the disaster."

"At what hour did you buy it?"

"I don't know exactly. It was some time after midnight."

Really, there was little use in questioning this man. If he had bought his paper at half-past eleven, as I felt positive he did, and if he had come out to Sedgwick on the twelve o'clock train, he was quite capable of answering me in this casual way, to throw me off the track.

Well, I would try once again.

"Excuse me, Mr. Hall, but I am obliged to ask you some personal questions now. Are you engaged to Miss Lloyd?"

"I beg your pardon?"