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 they 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 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.