The enormity of suspecting Philip Crawford was so great, to my mind, that I went at once to the district attorney's office for consultation with him.
Mr. Goodrich listened to what I had to say, and then, when I waited for comment, said quietly:
“Do you know, Mr. Burroughs, I have thought all along that Philip Crawford was concealing something, but I didn't think, and don't think now, that he has any guilty secret of his own. I rather fancied he might know something that, if told, would be detrimental to Miss Lloyd's cause.”
“It may be so,” I returned, “but I can't see how that would make him conceal the fact of his having been on that late train Tuesday night. Why, I discussed with him the possibility of Hall's coming out on it, and it would have been only natural to say he was on it, and didn't see Hall.”
“Unless he did see him,” remarked the district attorney.
“Yes; there's that possibility. He may be shielding Hall for Miss Lloyd's sake—and—”
“Let's go to see him,” suggested Mr. Goodrich. “I believe in the immediate following up of any idea we may have.”
It was about five in the afternoon, an hour when we were likely to find Mr. Crawford at home, so we started off at once, and on reaching his house we were told that Mr. Randolph was with him in the library, but that he would see us. So to the library we went, and found Mr. Crawford and his lawyer hard at work on the papers of the Joseph Crawford estate.
Perhaps it was imagination, but I thought I detected a look of apprehension on Philip Crawford's face, as we entered, but he greeted us in his pleasant, simple way, and asked us to be seated.
“To come right to the point, Mr. Crawford,” said the district attorney, “Mr. Burroughs and I are still searching for new light on the tragedy of your brother's death. And now Mr. Burroughs wants to put a few questions to you, which may help him in his quest.”
Philip Crawford looked straight at me with his piercing eyes, and it seemed to me that he straightened himself, as for an expected blow.
“Yes, Mr. Burroughs,” he said courteously. “What is it you want to ask?”
So plain and straightforward was his manner, that I decided to be equally direct.
“Did you come out in that midnight train from New York last Tuesday night?” I began.
“I did,” he replied, in even tones.
“While on the train did you sit behind a lady who left a gold bag in the seat when she got out?”
“I did.”
“Did you pick up that bag and take it away with you?”
“I did.”
“Then, Mr. Crawford, as that is the gold bag that was found in your brother's office, I think you owe a more detailed explanation.”
To say that the lawyer and the district attorney, who heard these questions and answers, were astounded, is putting it too mildly. They were almost paralyzed with surprise and dismay.
To hear these condemning assertions straight from the lips of the man they incriminated was startling indeed.
“You are right,” said Philip Crawford. “I do owe an explanation, and I shall give it here and now.”
Although what he was going to say was doubtless a confession, Mr. Crawford's face showed an unmistakable expression of relief. He seemed like a man who had borne a terrible secret around with him for the past week, and was now glad that he was about to impart it to some one else.
He spoke very gravely, but with no faltering or hesitation.
“This is a solemn confession,” he said, turning to his lawyer, “and is made to the district attorney, with yourself and Mr. Burroughs as witnesses.”
Mr. Randolph bowed his head, in acknowledgment of this formal statement.
“I am a criminal in the eyes of the law,” said Mr. Crawford, in an impersonal tone, which I knew he adopted to hide any emotion he might feel. “I have committed a dastardly crime. But I am not the murderer of my brother Joseph.”
We all felt our hearts lightened of a great load, for it was impossible to disbelieve that calm statement and the clear gaze of those truthful, unafraid eyes.
“The story I have to tell will sound as if I might have been my brother's slayer, and this is why I assert the contrary at the outset.”
Pausing here, Mr. Crawford unlocked the drawer of a desk and took out a small pistol, which he laid on the table.
“That,” he said, “is my revolver, and it is the weapon with which my brother was killed.”
I felt a choking sensation. Philip Crawford's manner was so far removed from a sensational—or melodramatic effect, that it was doubly impressive. I believed his statement that he did not kill his brother, but what could these further revelations mean? Hall? Florence? Young Philip? Whom would Philip Crawford thus shield for a whole week, and then, when forced to do so, expose?
“You are making strange declarations, Mr. Crawford,” said Lawyer Randolph, who was already white-faced and trembling.
“I know it,” went on Philip Crawford, “and I trust you three men will hear my story through, and then take such measures as you see fit.
“This pistol, as I said, is my property. Perhaps about a month ago, I took it over to my brother Joseph. He has always been careless of danger, and as he was in the habit of sitting in his office until very late, with the long windows open on a dark veranda, I often told him he ought to keep a weapon in his desk, by way of general protection. Then, after there had been a number of burglaries in West Sedgwick, I took this pistol to him, and begged him as a favor to me to let it stay in his desk drawer as a precautionary measure. He laughed at my solicitude, but put it away in a drawer, the upper right-hand one, among his business papers. So much for the pistol.
“Last Tuesday night I came out from New York on that midnight train that reaches West Sedgwick station at one o'clock. In the train I did not notice especially who sat near me, but when I reached our station and started to leave the car, I noticed a gold bag in the seat ahead. I picked it up, and, with a half-formed intention of handing it to the conductor, I left the train. But as I stepped off I did not see the conductor, and, though I looked about for him, he did not appear, and the train moved on. I looked in the station, but the ticket agent was not visible, and as the hour was so late I slipped the bag into my pocket, intending to hand it over to the railroad authorities next morning. In fact, I thought little about it, for I was very much perturbed over some financial considerations. I had been reading my newspaper all the way out, from the city. It was an `extra,' with the account of the steamship accident.”
Here Mr. Crawford looked at me, as much as to say, “There's your precious newspaper clue,” but his manner was indicative only of sadness and grief; he had no cringing air as of a murderer.
“However, I merely skimmed the news about the steamer, so interested was I in the stock market reports. I needn't now tell the details, but I knew that Joseph had a `corner' in X.Y. stock. I was myself a heavy investor in it, and I began to realize that I must see Joseph at once, and learn his intended actions for the next day. If he threw his stock on the market, there would be a drop of perhaps ten points and I should be a large loser, if, indeed, I were not entirely wiped out. So I went from the train straight to my brother's home. When I reached the gate, I saw there was a low light in his office, so I went round that way, instead of to the front door. As I neared the veranda, and went up the steps, I drew from my overcoat pocket the newspaper, and, feeling the gold bag there also, I drew that out, thinking to show it to Joseph. As I look back now, I think it occurred to me that the bag might be Florence's; I had seen her carry one like it. But, as you can readily understand, I gave no coherent thought to the bag, as my mind was full of the business matter. The French window was open, and I stepped inside.”
Mr. Crawford paused here, but he gave way to no visible emotion. He was like a man with an inexorable duty to perform, and no wish to stop until it was finished.
But truth was stamped unmistakably in every word and every look.
“Only the desk light was turned on, but that gave light enough for me to see my brother sitting dead in his chair. I satisfied myself that he was really dead, and then, in a sort of daze, I looked about the room. Though I felt benumbed and half unconscious, physically, my thoughts worked rapidly. On the desk before him I saw his will.”
An irrepressible exclamation from Mr. Randolph was the only sound that greeted this astonishing statement.
“Yes,” and Mr. Crawford took a document from the same drawer whence he had taken the pistol; “there is Joseph Crawford's will, leaving all his property to Florence Lloyd.”
Mechanically, Mr. Randolph took the paper his client passed to him, and, after a glance at it, laid it on the table in front of him.
“That was my crime,” said Philip Crawford solemnly, “and I thank God that I can confess it and make restitution. I must have been suddenly possessed of a devil of greed, for the moment I saw that will, I knew that if I took it away the property would be mine, and I would then run no danger of being ruined by my stock speculations. I had a dim feeling that I should eventually give all, or a large part, of the fortune to Florence, but at the moment I was obsessed by evil, and I—I stole my brother's will.”
It was an honest confession of an awful crime. But under the spell of that strong, low voice, and the upright bearing of that impressive figure, we could not, at the moment, condemn; we could only listen and wait.
“Then,” the speaker proceeded, “I was seized with the terrific, unreasoning fear that I dare say always besets a malefactor. I had but one thought, to get away, and leave the murder to be discovered by some one else. In a sort of subconscious effort at caution, I took my pistol, lest it prove incriminating evidence against me, but in my mad frenzy of fear, I gave no thought to the gold bag or the newspaper. I came home, secreted the will and the revolver, and ever since I have had no doubts as to the existence of a hell. A thousand times I have been on the point of making this confession, and even had it not been brought about as it has, I must have given way soon. No mortal could stand out long under the pressure of remorse and regret that has been on me this past week. Now, gentlemen, I have told you all. The action you may take in this matter must be of your own choosing. But, except for the stigma of past sin, I stand again before the world, with no unconfessed crime upon my conscience. I stole the will; I have restored it. But my hands are clean of the blood of my brother, and I am now free to add my efforts to yours to find the criminal and avenge the crime.”
He had not raised his voice above those low, even tones in which he had started his recital; he had made no bid for leniency of judgment; but, to a man, his three hearers rose and held out friendly hands to him as he finished his story.
“Thank you,” he said simply, as he accepted this mute token of our belief in his word. “I am gratified at your kindly attitude, but I realize, none the less, what this will all mean for me. Not only myself but my innocent family must share my disgrace. However, that is part of the wrongdoer's punishment—that results fall not only on his own head, but on the heads and hearts of his loved ones.”
“Mr. Goodrich,” said Mr. Randolph, “I don't know how you look upon this matter from your official viewpoint, but unless you deem it necessary, I should think that this confidence of Mr. Crawford's need never be given to the public. May we not simply state that the missing will has been found, without any further disclosures?”
“I am not asking for any such consideration,” said Philip Crawford. “If you decide upon such a course, it will be entirely of your own volition.”
The district attorney hesitated.
“Speaking personally,” he said, at last, “I may say that I place full credence in Mr. Crawford's story. I am entirely convinced of the absolute truth of all his statements. But, speaking officially, I may say that in a court of justice witnesses would be required, who could corroborate his words.”
“But such witnesses are manifestly impossible to procure,” said Mr. Randolph.
“Certainly they are,” I agreed, “and I should like to make this suggestion: Believing, as we do, in Mr. Crawford's story, it becomes important testimony in the case. Now, if it were made public, it would lose its importance, for it would set ignorant tongues wagging, and give rise to absurd and untrue theories, and result in blocking our best-meant efforts. So I propose that we keep the matter to ourselves for a time—say a week or a fortnight—keeping Mr. Crawford under surveillance, if need be. Then we can work on the case, with the benefit of the suggestions offered by Mr. Crawford's revelations; and I, for one, think such benefit of immense importance.”
“That will do,” said Mr. Goodrich, whose troubled face had cleared at my suggestion. “You are quite right, Mr. Burroughs. And the `surveillance' will be a mere empty formality. For a man who has confessed as Mr. Crawford has done, is not going to run away from the consequences of his confession.”
“I am not,” said Mr. Crawford. “And I am grateful for this respite from unpleasant publicity. I will take my punishment when it comes, but I feel with Mr. Burroughs that more progress can be made if what I have told you is not at once generally known.”
“Where now does suspicion point?”
It was Mr. Randolph who spoke. His legal mind had already gone ahead of the present occasion, and was applying the new facts to the old theories.
“To Gregory Hall,” said the district attorney.
“Wait,” said I. “If Mr. Crawford left the bag and the newspaper in the office, we have no evidence whatever that Mr. Hall came out on that late train.”
“Nor did he need to,” said Mr. Goodrich, who was thinking rapidly. “He might have come on an earlier train, or, for that matter, not by train at all. He may have come out from town in a motor car.”
This was possible; but it did not seem to me probable. A motor car was a conspicuous way for a man to come out from New York and return, if he wished to keep his visit secret. Still, he could have left the car at some distance from the house, and walked the rest of the way.
“Did Mr. Hall know that a revolver was kept in Mr. Crawford's desk drawer?” I asked.
“He did,” replied Philip Crawford. “He was present when I took my pistol over to Joseph.”
“Then,” said Mr. Goodrich, “the case looks to me very serious against Mr. Hall. We have proved his motive, his opportunity, and his method, or, rather, means, of committing the crime. Add to this his unwillingness to tell where he was on Tuesday night, and I see sufficient justification for issuing a warrant for his arrest.”
“I don't know,” said Philip Crawford, “whether such immediate measures are advisable. I don't want to influence you, Mr. Goodrich, but suppose we see Mr. Hall, and question him a little. Then, if it seems to you best, arrest him.”
“That is a good suggestion, Mr. Crawford,” said the district attorney. “We can have a sort of court of inquiry by ourselves, and perhaps Mr. Hall will, by his own words, justify or relieve our suspicions.”
I went away from Mr. Crawford's house, and went straight to Florence Lloyd's. I did this almost involuntarily. Perhaps if I had stopped to think, I might have realized that it did not devolve upon me to tell her of Philip Crawford's confession. But I wanted to tell her myself, because I hoped that from her manner of hearing the story I could learn something. I still believed that in trying to shield Hall, she had not yet been entirely frank with me, and at any rate, I wanted to be the one to tell her of the important recent discovery.
When I arrived, I found Mr. Porter in the library talking with Florence. At first I hesitated about telling my story before him, and then I remembered that he was one of the best of Florence's friends and advisers, and moreover a man of sound judgment and great perspicacity. Needless to say, they were both amazed and almost stunned by the recital, and it was some time before they could take in the situation in all its bearings. We had a long, grave conversation, for the three of us were not influenced so much by the sensationalness of this new development, as by the question of whither it led. Of course the secret was as safe with these two, as with those of us who had heard it directly from Philip Crawford's lips.
“I understand Philip Crawford's action,” said Mr. Porter, very seriously. “In the first place he was not quite himself, owing to the sudden shock of seeing his brother dead before his eyes. Also the sight of his own pistol, with which the deed had evidently been committed, unnerved him. It was an almost unconscious nervous action which made him take the pistol, and it was a sort of subconscious mental working that resulted in his abstracting the will. Had he been in full possession of his brain faculty, he could not have done either. He did wrong, of course, but he has made full restitution, and his wrong-doing should not only be forgiven but forgotten.”
I looked at Mr. Porter in unfeigned admiration. Truly he had expressed noble sentiments, and his must be a broadly noble nature that could show such a spirit toward his fellow man.
Florence, too, gave him an appreciative glance, but her mind seemed to be working on the possibilities of the new evidence.
“Then it would seem,” she said slowly, “that as I, myself, was in Uncle's office at about eleven o'clock, and as Uncle Philip was there a little after one o'clock, whoever killed Uncle Joseph came and went away between those hours.”
“Yes,” I said, and I knew that her thoughts had flown to Gregory Hall. “But I think there are no trains in and out again of West Sedgwick between those hours.”
“He need not have come in a train,” said Florence slowly, as if simply voicing her thoughts.
“Don't attempt to solve the mystery, Florence,” said Mr. Porter in his decided way. “Leave that for those who make it their business. Mr. Burroughs, I am sure, will do all he can, and it is not for you to trouble your already sad heart with these anxieties. Give it up, my girl, for it means only useless exertion on your part.”
“And on my part too, I fear, Mr. Porter,” I said. “Without wishing to shirk my duty, I can't help feeling I'm up against a problem that to me is insoluble. It is my desire, since the case is baffling, to call in talent of a higher order. Fleming Stone, for instance.”
Mr. Porter gave me a sudden glance, and it was a glance I could not understand. For an instant it seemed to me that he showed fear, and this thought was instantly followed by the impression that he feared for Florence. And then I chid myself for my foolish heart that made every thought that entered my brain lead to Florence Lloyd. With my mind in this commotion I scarcely heard Mr. Porter's words.
“No, no,” he was saying, “we need no other or cleverer detective than you, Mr. Burroughs. If, as Florence says, the murderer was clever enough to come between those two hours, and go away again, leaving no sign, he is probably clever enough so to conceal his coming and going that he may not be traced.”
“But, Mr. Porter,” I observed, “they say murder will out.”
Again that strange look came into his eyes. Surely it was an expression of fear. But he only said, “Then you're the man to bring that result about, Mr. Burroughs. I have great confidence in your powers as a detective.”
He took his leave, and I was not sorry, for I wanted an opportunity to see Florence alone.
“I am so sorry,” she said, and for the first time I saw tears in her dear, beautiful eyes, “to hear that about Uncle Philip. But Mr. Porter was right, he was not himself, or he never could have done it.”
“It was an awful thing for him to find his brother as he did, and go away and leave him so.”
“Awful, indeed! But the Crawfords have always been strange in their ways. I have never seen one of them show emotion or sentiment upon any occasion.”
“Now you are again an heiress,” I said, suddenly realizing the fact.
“Yes,” she said, but her tone indicated that her fortune brought in its train many perplexing troubles and many grave questions.
“Forgive me,” I began, “if I am unwarrantably intrusive, but I must say this. Affairs are so changed now, that new dangers and troubles may arise for you. If I can help you in any way, will you let me do so? Will you confide in me and trust me, and will you remember that in so doing you are not putting yourself under the slightest obligation?”
She looked at me very earnestly for a moment, and then without replying directly to my questions, she said in a low tone, “You are the very best friend I have ever had.”
“Florence!” I cried; but even as she had spoken, she had gone softly out of the room, and with a quiet joy in my heart, I went away.
That afternoon I was summoned to Mr. Philip Crawford's house to be present at the informal court of inquiry which was to interrogate Gregory Hall.
Hall was summoned by telephone, and not long after he arrived. He was cool and collected, as usual, and I wondered if even his arrest would disturb his calm.
“We are pursuing the investigation of Mr. Joseph Crawford's death, Mr. Hall,” the district attorney began, “and we wish, in the course of our inquiries, to ask some questions of you.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Gregory Hall, with an air of polite indifference.
“And I may as well tell you at the outset,” went on Mr. Goodrich, a little irritated at the young man's attitude, “that you, Mr. Hall, are under suspicion.”
“Yes?” said Hall interrogatively. “But I was not here that night.”
“That's just the point, sir. You say you were not here, but you refuse to say where you were. Now, wherever you may have been that night, a frank admission of it will do you less harm than this incriminating concealment of the truth.”
“In that case,” said Hall easily, “I suppose I may as well tell you. But first, since you practically accuse me, may I ask if any new developments have been brought to light?”
“One has,” said Mr. Goodrich. “The missing will has been found.”
“What?” cried Hall, unable to conceal his satisfaction at this information.
“Yes,” said Mr. Goodrich coldly, disgusted at the plainly apparent mercenary spirit of the man; “yes, the will of Mr. Joseph Crawford, which bequeaths the bulk of his estate to Miss Lloyd, is safe in Mr. Randolph's possession. But that fact in no way affects your connection with the case, or our desire to learn where you were on Tuesday night.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Goodrich; I didn't hear all that you said.”
Bluffing again, thought I; and, truly, it seemed to me rather a clever way to gain time for consideration, and yet let his answers appear spontaneous.
The district attorney repeated his question, and now Gregory Hall answered deliberately,
“I still refuse to tell you where I was. It in no way affects the case; it is a private matter of my own. I was in New York City from the time I left West Sedgwick at six o'clock on Monday, until I returned the next morning. Further than that I will give no account of my doings.”
“Then we must assume you were engaged in some occupation of which you are ashamed to tell.”
Hall shrugged his shoulders. “You may assume what you choose,” he said. “I was not here, I had no hand in Mr. Crawford's death, and knew nothing of it until my return next day.”
“You knew Mr. Crawford kept a revolver in his desk. You must know it is not there now.”
Hall looked troubled.
“I know nothing about that revolver,” he said. “I saw it the day Mr. Philip Crawford brought it there, but I have never seen it since.”
This sounded honest enough, but if he were the criminal, he would, of course, make these same avowals.
“Well, Mr. Hall,” said the district attorney, with an air of finality, “we suspect you. We hold that you had motive, opportunity, and means for this crime. Therefore, unless you can prove an alibi for Tuesday night, and bring witnesses to prove where you, were, we must arrest you, on suspicion, for the murder of Joseph Crawford.”
Gregory Hall deliberated silently for a few moments, then he said:
“I am innocent. But I persist in my refusal to allow intrusion on my private and personal affairs. Arrest me if you will, but you will yet learn your mistake.”
I can never explain it, even to myself, but something in the man's tone and manner convinced me, even against my own will, that he spoke the truth.
The news of Gregory Hall's arrest flew through the town like wildfire.
That evening I went to call on Florence Lloyd, though I had little hope that she would see me.
To my surprise, however, she welcomed me almost eagerly, and, though I knew she wanted to see me only for what legal help I might give her, I was glad even of this.
And yet her manner was far from impersonal. Indeed, she showed a slight embarrassment in my presence, which, if I had dared, I should have been glad to think meant a growing interest in our friendship.
“You have heard all?” I asked, knowing from her manner that she had.
“Yes,” she replied; “Mr. Hall was here for dinner, and then—then he went away to—”
“To prison,” I finished quietly. “Florence, I cannot think he is the murderer of your uncle.”
If she noticed this, my first use of her Christian name, she offered no remonstrance, and I went on,
“To be sure, they have proved that he had motive, means, opportunity, and all that, but it is only indefinite evidence. If he would but tell where he was on Tuesday night, he could so easily free himself. Why will he not tell?”
“I don't know,” she said, looking thoughtful. “But I cannot think he was here, either. When he said good-by to me to-night, he did not seem at all apprehensive. He only said he was arrested wrongfully, and that he would soon be set free again. You know his way of taking everything casually.”
“Yes, I do. And now that you are your uncle's heiress, I suppose he no longer wishes to break the engagement between you and him.”
I said this bitterly, for I loathed the nature that could thus turn about in accordance with the wheel of fortune.
To my surprise, she too spoke bitterly.
“Yes,” she said; “he insists now that we are engaged, and that he never really wanted to break it. He has shown me positively that it is my money that attracts him, and if it were not that I don't want to seem to desert him now, when he is in trouble—”
She paused, and my heart beat rapidly. Could it be that at last she saw Gregory Hall as he really was, and that his mercenary spirit had killed her love for him? At least, she had intimated this, and, forcing myself to be content with that for the present, I said:
“Would you, then, if you could, get him out of this trouble?”
“Gladly. I do not think he killed Uncle Joseph, but I'm sure I do not know who did. Do you?”
“I haven't the least idea,” I answered honestly, for there, in Florence Lloyd's presence, gazing into the depths of her clear eyes, my last, faint suspicion of her wrong-doing faded away. “And it is this total lack of suspicion that makes the case so simple, and therefore so difficult. A more complicated case offers some points on which to build a theory. I do not blame Mr. Goodrich for suspecting Mr. Hall, for there seems to be no one else to suspect.”
Just then Mr. Lemuel Porter dropped in for an evening call. Of course, we talked over the events of the day, and Mr. Porter was almost vehement in his denunciation of the sudden move of the district attorney.
“It's absurd,” he said, “utterly absurd. Gregory Hall never did the thing. I've known Hall for years, and he isn't that sort of a man. I believe Philip Crawford's story, of course, but the murderer, who came into the office after Florence's visit to her uncle, and before Philip arrived, was some stranger from out of town—some man whom none of us know; who had some grievance against Joseph, and who deliberately came and went during that midnight hour.”
I agreed with Mr. Porter. I had thought all along it was some one unknown to the Sedgwick people, but some one well known to Joseph Crawford. For, had it been an ordinary burglar, the victim would at least have raised a protecting hand.
“Of course Hall will be set free at once,” continued Mr. Porter, “but to arrest him was a foolish thing to do.”
“Still, he ought to prove his alibi,” I said.
“Very well, then; make him prove it. Give him the third degree, if necessary, and find out where he was on Tuesday night.”
“I doubt if they could get it out of him,” I observed, “if he continues determined not to tell.”
“Then he deserves his fate,” said Mr. Porter, a little petulantly. “He can free himself by a word. If he refuses to do so it's his own business.”
“But I'd like to help him,” said Florence, almost timidly. “Is there no way I can do so, Mr. Burroughs?”
“Indeed there is,” I said. “You are a rich woman now; use some of your wealth to employ the services of Fleming Stone, and I can assure you the truth will be discovered.”
“Indeed I will,” said Florence. “Please send for him at once.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Porter. “It isn't necessary at all. Mr. Burroughs here, and young Parmalee, are all the detectives we need. Get Hall to free himself, as he can easily do, and then set to work in earnest to run down the real villain.”
“No, Mr. Porter,” said Florence, with firmness; “Gregory will not tell his secret, whatever it is. I know his stubborn nature. He'll stay in prison until he's freed, as he is sure he will be, but he won't tell what he has determined not to divulge. No, I am glad I can do something definite at last toward avenging Uncle Joseph's death. Please send for Mr. Stone, Mr. Burroughs, and I will gladly pay his fees and expenses.” Mr. Porter expostulated further, but to no avail. Florence insisted on sending for the great detective.
So I sent for him.
He came two days later, and in the interval nothing further had been learned from Gregory Hall. The man was an enigma to me. He was calm and impassive as ever. Courteous, though never cordial, and apparently without the least apprehension of ever being convicted for the crime which had caused his arrest.
Indeed, he acted just as an innocent man would act; innocent of the murder, that is, but resolved to conceal his whereabouts of Tuesday night, whatever that resolve might imply.
To me, it did not imply crime. Something he wished to conceal, certainly; but I could not think a criminal would act so. A criminal is usually ready with an alibi, whether it can be proved or not.
When Fleming Stone arrived I met him at the station and took him at once to the inn, where I had engaged rooms for him.
We first had a long conversation alone, in which I told him, everything I knew concerning the murder.
“When did it happen?” he asked, for, though he had read some of the newspaper accounts, the date had escaped him.
I told him, and added, “Why, I was called here just after I left you at the Metropolis Hotel that morning. Don't you remember, you deduced a lot of information from a pair of shoes which were waiting to be cleaned?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Stone, smiling a little at the recollection.
“And I tried to make similar deductions from the gold bag and the newspaper, but I couldn't do it. I bungled matters every time. My deductions are mostly from the witnesses' looks or tones when giving evidence.”
“On the stand?”
“Not necessarily on the stand. I've learned much from talking to the principals informally.”
“And where do your suspicions point?”
“Nowhere. I've suspected Florence Lloyd and Gregory Hall, in turn, and in collusion; but now I suspect neither of them.”
“Why not Hall?”
“His manner is too frank and unconcerned.”
“A good bluff for a criminal to use.”
“Then he won't tell where he was that night.”
“If he is the murderer, he can't tell. A false alibi is so easily riddled. It's rather clever to keep doggedly silent; but what does he say is his reason?”
“He won't give any reason. He has determined to keep up that calm, indifferent pose, and though it is aggravating, I must admit it serves his purpose well.”
“How did they find him the morning after the murder?”
“Let me see; I believe the coroner said he telephoned first to Hall's club. But the steward said Hall didn't stay there, as there was no vacant room, and that he had stayed all night at a hotel.”
“What hotel?”
“I don't know. The coroner asked the steward, but he didn't know.”
“Didn't he find out from Hall, afterward?”
“I don't know, Stone; perhaps the coroner asked him, but if he did, I doubt if Hall told. It didn't seem to me important.”
“Burroughs, my son, you should have learned every detail of Hall's doings that night.”
“But if he were not in West Sedgwick, what difference could it possibly make where he was?”
“One never knows what difference anything will make until the difference is made. That's oracular, but it means more than it sounds. However, go on.”
I went on, and I even told him what Florence had told me concerning the possibility of Hall's interest in another woman.
“At last we are getting to it,” said Stone; “why in the name of all good detectives, didn't you hunt up that other woman?”
“But she is perhaps only a figment of Miss Lloyd's brain.”
“Figments of the brains of engaged young ladies are apt to have a solid foundation of flesh and blood. I think much could be learned concerning Mr. Hall's straying fancy. But tell me again about his attitude toward Miss Lloyd, in the successive developments of the will question.”
Fleming Stone was deeply interested as I rehearsed how, when Florence was supposed to be penniless, he wished to break the engagement. When Philip Crawford offered to provide for her, Mr. Hall was uncertain; but when the will was found, and Florence was known to inherit all her uncle's property, then Gregory Hall not only held her to the engagement, but said he had never wished to break it.
“H'm,” said Stone. “Pretty clear that the young man is a fortune-hunter.”
“He is,” I agreed. “I felt sure of that from the first.”
“And he is now under arrest, calmly waiting for some one to prove his innocence, so he can marry the heiress.”
“That's about the size of it,” I said. “But I don't think Florence is quite as much in love with him as she was. She seems to have realized his mercenary spirit.”
Perhaps an undue interest in my voice or manner disclosed to this astute man the state of my own affections, for he gave me a quizzical glance, and said, “O-ho! sits the wind in that quarter?”
“Yes,” I said, determined to be frank with him. “It does. I want you, to free Gregory Hall, if he's innocent. Then if, for any reason, Miss Lloyd sees fit to dismiss him, I shall most certainly try to win her affections. As I came to this determination when she was supposed to be penniless, I can scarcely be accused of fortune-hunting myself.”
“Indeed, you can't, old chap. You're not that sort. Well, let's go to see your district attorney and his precious prisoner, and see what's to be done.”
We went to the district attorney's office, and, later, accompanied by him and by Mr. Randolph, we visited Gregory Hall.
As I had expected, Mr. Hall wore the same unperturbed manner he always showed, and when Fleming Stone was introduced, Hall greeted him coldly, with absolutely no show of interest in the man or his work.
Fleming Stone's own kindly face took on a slight expression of hauteur, as he noticed his reception, but he said, pleasantly enough,
“I am here in an effort to aid in establishing your innocence, Mr. Hall.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Hall listlessly.
I wondered whether this asking to have a remark repeated was merely a foolish habit of Hall's, or whether, as I had heretofore guessed, it was a ruse to gain time.
Fleming Stone looked at him a little more sharply as he repeated his remark in clear, even tones.
“Thank you,” said Hall, pleasantly enough. “I shall be glad to be free from this unjust suspicion.”
“And as a bit of friendly advice,” went on Stone, “I strongly urge that you, reveal to us, confidentially, where you were on Tuesday night.”
Hall looked the speaker straight in the eye.
“That,” he said, “I must still refuse to do.”
Fleming Stone rose and walked toward the window.
“I think,” he said, “the proof of your innocence may depend upon this point.”
Gregory Hall turned his head, and followed Stone with his eyes.
“What did you say, Mr. Stone?” he asked quietly.
The detective returned to his seat.
“I said,” he replied, “that the proof of your innocence might depend on your telling this secret of yours. But I begin to think now you will be freed from suspicion whether you tell it or not.”
Instead of looking glad at this assurance, Gregory Hall gave a start, and an expression of fear came into his eyes.
“What do you mean?” he said,
“Have you any letters in your pocket, Mr. Hall?” went on Fleming Stone in a suave voice.
“Yes; several. Why?”
“I do not ask to read them. Merely show me the lot.”
With what seemed to be an unwilling but enforced movement, Mr. Hall drew four or five letters from his breast pocket and handed them to Fleming Stone.
“They've all been looked over, Mr. Stone,” said the district attorney; “and they have no bearing on the matter of the crime.”
“Oh, I don't want to read them,” said the detective.
He ran over the lot carelessly, not taking the sheets from the envelopes, and returned them to their owner.
Gregory Hall looked at him as if fascinated. What revelation was this man about to make?
“Mr. Hall,” Fleming Stone began, “I've no intention of forcing your secret from you. But I shall ask you some questions, and you may do as you like about answering them. First, you refuse to tell where you were during the night last Tuesday. I take it, you mean you refuse to tell how or where you spent the evening. Now, will you tell us where you lodged that night?”
“I fail to see any reason for telling you,” answered Hall, after a moment's thought. “I have said I was in New York City, that is enough.”
“The reason you may as well tell us,” went on Mr. Stone, “is because it is a very simple matter for us to find out. You doubtless were at some hotel, and you went there because you could not get a room at your club. In fact, this was stated when the coroner telephoned for you, the morning after the murder. I mean, it was stated that the club bed-rooms were all occupied. I assume, therefore, that you lodged at some hotel, and, as a canvass of the city hotels would be a simple matter, you may as well save us that trouble.”
“Oh, very well,” said Gregory Hall sullenly; “then I did spend the night at a hotel. It was the Metropolis Hotel, and you will find my name duly on the register.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Stone pleasantly. “Now that you have told us this, have you any objection to telling us at what time you returned to the hotel, after your evening's occupation, whatever it may have been?”
“Eh?” said Hall abstractedly. He turned his head as he spoke, and Fleming Stone threw me a quizzical smile which I didn't in the least understand.
“You may as well tell us,” said Stone, after he had repeated his question, “for if you withhold it, the night clerk can give us this information.”
“Well,” said Hall, who now looked distinctly sulky, “I don't remember exactly, but I think I turned in somewhere between twelve and one o'clock.”
“And as it was a late hour, you slept rather late next morning,” suggested Stone.
“Oh, I don't know. I was at Mr. Crawford's New York office by half-past ten.”
“A strange coincidence, Burroughs,” said Fleming Stone, turning to me.
“Eh? Beg pardon?” said Hall, turning his head also.
“Mr. Hall,” said Stone, suddenly facing him again, “are you deaf? Why do you ask to have remarks repeated?”
Hall looked slightly apologetic. “I am a little deaf,” he said; “but only in one ear. And only at times—or, rather, it's worse at times. If I have a cold, for instance.”
“Or in damp weather?” said Stone. “Mr. Hall, I have questioned you enough. I will now tell these gentlemen, since you refuse to do so, where you were on the night of Mr. Crawford's murder. You were not in West Sedgwick, or near it. You are absolutely innocent of the crime or any part in it.”
Gregory Hall straightened up perceptibly, like a man exonerated from all blame. But he quailed again, as Fleming Stone, looking straight at him, continued: “You left West Sedgwick at six that evening, as you have said. You registered at the Metropolis Hotel, after learning that you could not get a room at your club. And then—you went over to Brooklyn to meet, or to call on, a young woman living in that borough. You took her back to New York to the theatre or some such entertainment, and afterward escorted her back to her home. The young woman wore a street costume, by which I mean a cloth gown without a train. You did not have a cab, but, after leaving the car, you walked for a rather long distance in Brooklyn. It was raining, and you were both under one umbrella. Am I correct, so far?”
At last Gregory Hall's calm was disturbed. He looked at Fleming Stone as at a supernatural being. And small wonder. For the truth of Stone's statements was evident from Hall's amazement at them.
“You—you saw us!” he gasped.
“No, I didn't see you; it is merely a matter of observation, deduction, and memory. You recollect the muddy shoes?” he added, turning to me.
Did I recollect! Well, rather! And it certainly was a coincidence that we had chanced to examine those shoes that morning at the hotel.
As for Mr. Randolph and the district attorney, they were quite as much surprised as Hall.
“Can you prove this astonishing story, Mr. Stone?” asked Mr. Goodrich, with an incredulous look.
“Oh, yes, in lots of ways,” returned Stone. “For one thing, Mr. Hall has in his pocket now a letter from the young lady. The whole matter is of no great importance except as it proves Mr. Hall was not in West Sedgwick that night, and so is not the murderer.”
“But why conceal so simple a matter? Why refuse to tell of the episode?” asked Mr. Randolph.
“Because,” and now Fleming Stone looked at Hall with accusation in his glance—“because Mr. Hall is very anxious that his fiancee shall not know of his attentions to the young lady in Brooklyn.”
“O-ho!” said Mr. Goodrich, with sudden enlightenment. “I see it all now. Is it the truth, Mr. Hall? Did you go to Brooklyn and back that night, as Mr. Stone has described?”
Gregory Hall fidgeted in an embarrassed way. But, unable to escape the piercing gaze of Stone's eyes, he admitted grudgingly that the detective had told the truth, adding, “But it's wizardry, that's what it is! How could he know?”
“I had reason for suspicion,” said Stone; “and when I found you were deaf in your right ear, and that you had in your pocket a letter addressed in a feminine hand, and postmarked `Brooklyn,' I was sure.”
“It's all true,” said Hall slowly. “You have the facts all right. But, unless you have had me shadowed, will you tell me how you knew it all?”
And then Fleming Stone told of his observations and deductions when we noticed the muddied shoes at the Metropolis Hotel that morning.
“But,” he said, as he concluded, “when I hastily adjudged the young lady to be deaf in the left ear, I see now I was mistaken. As soon as I realized Mr. Hall himself is deaf in the right ear, especially so in damp or wet weather, I saw that it fitted the case as well as if the lady had been deaf in her left ear. Then a note in his pocket from a lady in Brooklyn made me quite sure I was right.”
“But, Mr. Stone,” said Lawyer Randolph, “it is very astonishing that you should make those deductions from those shoes, and then come out here and meet the owner of the shoes.”
“It seems more remarkable than it really is, Mr. Randolph,” was the response; “for I am continually observing whatever comes to my notice. Hundreds of my deductions are never verified, or even thought of again; so it is not so strange that now and then one should prove of use in my work.”
“Well,” said the district attorney, “it seems wonderful to me. But now that Mr. Hall has proved his alibi, or, rather, Mr. Stone has proved it for him, we must begin anew our search for the real criminal.”
“One moment,” said Gregory Hall. “As you know, gentlemen, I endeavored to keep this little matter of my going to Brooklyn a secret. As it has no possible bearing on the case of Mr. Crawford, may I ask of you to respect my desire that you say nothing about it?”
“For my part,” said the district attorney, “I am quite willing to grant Mr. Hall's request. I have put him to unnecessary trouble and embarrassment by having him arrested, and I shall be glad to do him this favor that he asks, by way of amends.”
But Mr. Randolph seemed reluctant to make the required promise, and Fleming Stone looked at Hall, and said nothing.
Then I spoke out, and, perhaps with scant courtesy, I said:
“I, for one, refuse to keep this revelation a secret. It was discovered by the detective engaged by Miss Lloyd. Therefore, I think Miss Lloyd is entitled to the knowledge we have thus gained.”
Mr. Randolph looked at me with approval. He was a good friend of Florence Lloyd, and he was of no mind to hide from her something which it might be better for her to know.
Gregory Hall set his lips together in a way which argued no pleasant feelings toward me, but he said nothing then. He was forthwith released from custody, and the rest of us separated; having arranged to meet that evening at Miss Lloyd's home to discuss matters.