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 grove 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.
Chapter XX.
Fleming Stone
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,