versed the long hall: "there is no doubt in any one's mind as to who
committed the murder, but no name has been mentioned yet, and nobody
wants to be the first to say that name. It'll come out at the inquest,
of course, and then--"

"But," I interrupted, "if the identity of the murderer is so certain,
why did they send for me in such haste?"

"Oh, that was the coroner's doing. He's a bit inclined to the
spectacular, is Monroe, and he wants to make the whole affair as
important as possible."

"But surely, Mr. Parmalee, if you are certain of the criminal it is very
absurd for me to take up the case at all."

"Oh, well, Mr. Burroughs, as I say, no name has been spoken yet. And,
too, a big case like this ought to have a city detective on it. Even
if you only corroborate what we all feel sure of, it will prove to the
public mind that it must be so."

"Tell me then, who is your suspect?"

"Oh, no, since you are here you had better investigate with an
unprejudiced mind. Though you cannot help arriving at the inevitable
conclusion."

We had now reached a closed door, and, at Mr. Parmalee's tap, were
admitted by the inspector who was in charge of the room.

It was a beautiful apartment, far too rich and elaborate to be
designated by the name of "office," as it was called by every one who
spoke of it; though of course it was Mr. Crawford's office, as was
shown by the immense table-desk of dark mahogany, and all the other
paraphernalia of a banker's work-room, from ticker to typewriter.

But the decorations of walls and ceilings, the stained glass of the
windows, the pictures, rugs, and vases, all betokened luxurious tastes
that are rarely indulged in office furnishings. The room was flooded
with sunlight. Long French windows gave access to a side veranda, which
in turn led down to a beautiful terrace and formal garden. But all these
things were seen only in a hurried glance, and then my eyes fell on the
tragic figure in the desk chair.

The body had not been moved, and would not be until after the jury had
seen it, and though a ghastly sight, because of a bullet-hole in the
left temple, otherwise it looked much as Mr. Crawford must have looked
in life.

A handsome man, of large physique and strong, stern face, he must have
been surprised, and killed instantly; for surely, given the chance,
he would have lacked neither courage nor strength to grapple with an
assailant.

I felt a deep impulse of sympathy for that sp