“My dear Mr. Goodrich,” I said, “don't be absurd! A man would hardly
shoot his own brother, but aside from that, why should Philip Crawford
kill Joseph just at the moment he is about to make a new will in
Philip's favor? Either the destruction of the old will or the drawing
of the new would result in Philip's falling heir to the fortune. So he
would hardly precipitate matters by a criminal act. And, too, if he had
been keen about the money, he could have urged his brother to disinherit
Florence Lloyd, and Joseph would have willingly done so. He was on the
very point of doing so, any way.”
“That's true,” said Mr. Goodrich, looking chagrined but unconvinced.
“However, it frees Miss Lloyd from all doubts, by removing her motive.
As you say, she wouldn't suppress a will in her favor, and thereby turn
the fortune over to Philip. And, as you also said, this lets Gregory
Hall out, too, though I never suspected him for a moment. But, of
course, his interests and Miss Lloyd's are identical.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, for new thoughts were rapidly following one
another through my brain. “Not so fast, Mr. District Attorney. The
disappearance of the will does not remove motive from the possibility of
Miss Lloyd's complicity in this crime--or Mr. Hall's either.”
“How so?”
“Because, if Florence Lloyd thought her uncle was in possession of that
will, her motive was identically the same as if he had possessed it.
Now, she certainly thought he had it, for her surprise at the news of
its loss was as unfeigned as my own. And of course Hall thought the will
was among Mr. Crawford's effects, for he has been searching constantly
since the question was raised.”
“But I thought that yesterday you were so sure of Miss Lloyd's
innocence,” objected Mr. Goodrich.
“I was,” I said slowly, “and I think I am still. But in the light of
absolute evidence I am only declaring that the non-appearance of that
will in no way interferes with the motive Miss Lloyd must have had if
she is in any way guilty. She knew, or thought she knew, that the will
was there, in her favor. She knew her uncle intended to revoke it
and make another in her disfavor. I do not accuse her--I'm not sure I
suspect her--I only say she had motive and opportunity.”
As I walked away from Mr. Goodrich's office, those words rang in my
mind, motive and opportunity. Truly they applied to Mr. Hall as well as
to Miss Lloyd, although of course it would mean Hall's coming out from
the city and returning during the night. And though this might have
been a difficult thing to do secretly, it was by no means impossible. He
might not have come all the way to West Sedgwick Station, but might have
dropped off the train earlier and taken the trolley. The trolley! that
thought reminded me of the transfer I had picked up on the grass plot
near the office veranda. Was it possible that slip of paper was a clue,
and pointing toward Hall?
Without definite hope of seeing Gregory Hall, but hopeful of learning
something about him, I strolled back to the Crawford house. I went
directly to the office, and by good luck found Gregory Hall there alone.
He was still searching among the papers of Mr. Crawford's desk.
“Ah, Mr. Burroughs,” he said, as I entered, “I'm glad to see you. If
detectives detect, you have a fine chance here to do a bit of good work.
I wouldn't mind offering you an honorarium myself, if you could unearth
the will that has so mysteriously disappeared.”
Hall's whole manner had changed. He had laid aside entirely the grave
demeanor which he had shown at the funeral, and was again the alert
business man. He was more than this. He was eager,--offensively so,--in
his search for the will. It needed no detective instinct to see that
the fortune of Joseph Crawford and its bestowment were matters of vital
interest to him.
But though his personal feelings on the subject might be distasteful to
me, it was certainly part of my duty to aid in the search, and so with
him I looked through the various drawers and filing cabinets. The papers
representing or connected with the financial interests of the late
millionaire were neatly filed and labelled; but in some parts of
the desk we found the hodge-podge of personal odds and ends which
accumulates with nearly everybody.
Hall seemed little interested in those, but to my mind they showed a
possibility of casting some light on Mr. Crawford's personal affairs.
But among old letters, photographs, programs, newspaper clippings, and
such things, there was nothing that seemed of the slightest interest,
until at last I chanced upon a photograph that arrested my attention.
“Do you know who this is?” I inquired.
“No,” returned Hall, with a careless glance at it; “a friend of Mr.
Crawford's, I suppose.”
“More than a friend, I should judge,” and I turned the back of the
picture toward him. Across it was written, “with loving Christmas
greetings, from M.S.P.”; and it was dated as recently as the Christmas
previous.
“Well,” said Hall, “Mr. Crawford may have had a lady friend who cared
enough about him to send an affectionate greeting, but I never heard
of her before, and I doubt if she is in any way responsible for the
disappearance of this will.”
He went on searching through the desks, giving no serious heed to the
photograph. But to me it seemed important. I alone knew of the visiting
card in the gold bag. I alone knew that that bag belonged to a lady
named Purvis. And here was a photograph initialed by a lady whose
surname began with P, and who was unmistakably on affectionate terms
with Mr. Crawford. To my mind the links began to form a chain; the lady
who had sent her photograph at Christmas, and who had left her gold bag
in Mr. Crawford's office the night he was killed, surely was a lady to
be questioned.
But I had not yet had a reply to my telegram to headquarters, so I said
nothing to Hall on this subject, and putting the photograph in my pocket
continued to assist him to look for the will, but without success.
However, the discovery of the photograph had in a measure diverted my
suspicions from Gregory Hall; and though I endeavored to draw him into
general conversation, I did not ask him any definite questions about
himself.
But the more I talked with him, the more I disliked him: He not only
showed a mercenary, fortune-hunting spirit, but he showed himself in
many ways devoid of the finer feelings and chivalrous nature that ought
to belong to the man about to marry such a perfect flower of womanhood
as Florence Lloyd.