makes important deductions from seemingly unimportant
clues; and he holds that unless these clues are followed immediately,
they are lost sight of and great opportunities are gone."

"H'm," mused Philip Crawford, stroking his strong, square chin. "I don't
care much for these spectacular detectives. Your man, I suppose, would
glance at the gold bag, and at once announce the age, sex, and previous
condition of servitude of its owner."

"Just what I have thought, Mr. Crawford. I'm sure he could do just
that."

"And that's all the good it would do! That bag doesn't belong to the
criminal."

"How do you know?"

"By common-sense. No woman came to the house in the dead of night and
shot my brother, and then departed, taking her revolver with her. And
again, granting a woman did have nerve and strength enough to do
that, such a woman is not going off leaving her gold bag behind her as
evidence!"

This speech didn't affect me much. It was pure conjecture. Women are
uncertain creatures, at best; and a woman capable of murder would be
equally capable of losing her head afterward, and leaving circumstantial
evidence behind her.

I was sorry Mr. Crawford didn't seem to take to the notion of sending
for Stone. I wasn't weakening in the case so far as my confidence in my
own ability was concerned; but I could see no direction to look except
toward Florence Lloyd or Gregory Hall, or both. And so I was ready to
give up.

"What do you think of Gregory Hall?" I said suddenly.

"As a man or as a suspect?" inquired Mr. Crawford.

"Both."

"Well, as a man, I think he's about the average, ordinary young
American, of the secretary type. He has little real ambition, but he has
had a good berth with Joseph, and he has worked fairly hard to keep it.
As a suspect, the notion is absurd. He wasn't even in West Sedgwick."

"How do you know?"

"Because he went away at six that evening, and was in New York until
nearly noon the next day."

"How do you know?"

Philip Crawford stared at me.

"He says so," I went on; "but no one can prove his statement. He refuses
to say where he was in New York, or what he did. Now, merely as a
supposition, why couldn't he have come out here--say on the midnight
train--called on Mr. Joseph Crawford, and returned to New York before
daylight?"

"Absurd! Why, he had no motive for killing Joseph."

"He had the same motive Florence would have. He knew of Mr. Crawford's
objection to their union, and