he knew of his threat to change his will.
Mr. Hall is not blind to the advantages of a fortune."

"Right you are, there! In fact, I always felt he was marrying Florence
for her money. I had no real reason to think this, but somehow he gave
me that impression."

"Me, too. Moreover, I found a late extra of a New York paper in Mr.
Crawford's office. This wasn't on sale until about half past eleven that
night, so whoever left it there must have come out from the city on that
midnight train, or later."

A change came over Philip Crawford's face. Apparently he was brought to
see the whole matter in a new light.

"What? What's that?" he cried excitedly, grasping his chair-arms and
half rising. "A late newspaper! An extra!"

"Yes; the liner accident, you know."

"But--but--Gregory Hall! Why man, you're crazy! Hall is a good fellow.
Not remarkably clever, perhaps, and a fortune-hunter, maybe, but
not--surely not a murderer!"

"Don't take it so hard, Mr. Crawford," I broke in. "Probably. Mr. Hall
is innocent. But the late paper must have been left there by some one,
after, say, one o'clock."

"This is awful! This is terrible!" groaned the poor man, and I couldn't
help wondering if he had some other evidence against Hall that this
seemed to corroborate.

Then, by an effort, he recovered himself, and began to talk in more
normal tones.

"Now, don't let this new idea run away with you, Mr. Burroughs," he
said. "If Hall had an interview with my brother that night, he would
have learned from him that he intended to make a new will, but hadn't
yet done so."

"Exactly; and that would constitute a motive for putting Mr. Crawford
out of the way before he could accomplish his purpose."

"But Joseph had already destroyed the will that favored Florence."

"We don't know that," I responded gravely. "And, anyway, if he had done
so, Mr. Hall didn't know it. This leaves his motive unchanged."

"But the gold bag," said Mr. Crawford, apparently to get away--from the
subject of Gregory Hall.

"If, as you say," I began, "that is Florence's bag--"

I couldn't go on. A strange sense of duty had forced those words from
me, but I could say no more.

Fleming Stone might take the case if they wanted him to; or they
might get some one else. But I could not go on, when the only clues
discoverable pointed in a way I dared not look.

Philip Crawford was ghastly now. His face was working and he breathed
quickly.

"Nonsense, Dad!" crie