uite as I had
imagined it. The railway station was one of those modern attractive
structures of rough gray stone, with picturesque projecting roof and
broad, clean platforms. A flight of stone steps led down to the roadway,
and the landscape in every direction showed the well-kept roads, the
well-grown trees and the carefully-tended estates of a town of suburban
homes. The citizens were doubtless mainly men whose business was in New
York, but who preferred not to live there.

The superintendent must have apprised the coroner by telephone of my
immediate arrival, for a village cart from the Crawford establishment
was awaiting me, and a smart groom approached and asked if I were Mr.
Herbert Burroughs.

A little disappointed at having no more desirable companion on my way to
the house, I climbed up beside the driver, and the groom solemnly took
his place behind. Not curiosity, but a justifiable desire to learn the
main facts of the case as soon as possible, led me to question the man
beside me.

I glanced at him first and saw only the usual blank countenance of the
well-trained coachman.

His face was intelligent, and his eyes alert, but his impassive
expression showed his habit of controlling any indication of interest in
people or things.

I felt there would be difficulty in ingratiating myself at all, but I
felt sure that subterfuge would not help me, so I spoke directly.

"You are the coachman of the late Mr. Crawford?"

"Yes, sir."

I hadn't really expected more than this in words, but his tone was so
decidedly uninviting of further conversation that I almost concluded to
say nothing more. But the drive promised to be a fairly long one, so I
made another effort.

"As the detective on this case, I wish to hear the story of it as soon
as I can. Perhaps you can give me a brief outline of what happened."

It was perhaps my straightforward manner, and my quite apparent
assumption of his intelligence, that made the man relax a little and
reply in a more conversational tone.

"We're forbidden to chatter, sir," he said, "but, bein' as you're the
detective, I s'pose there's no harm. But it's little we know, after
all. The master was well and sound last evenin', and this mornin' he was
found dead in his own office-chair."

"You mean a private office in his home?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Crawford went to his office in New York 'most every day,
but days when he didn't go, and evenin's and Sundays, he was much in his
off