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