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,"