“To come right to the point, Mr. Crawford,” said the district attorney, “Mr. Burroughs and I are still searching for new light on the tragedy of your brother's death. And now Mr. Burroughs wants to put a few questions to you, which may help him in his quest.” Philip Crawford looked straight at me with his piercing eyes, and it seemed to me that he straightened himself, as for an expected blow. “Yes, Mr. Burroughs,” he said courteously. “What is it you want to ask?” So plain and straightforward was his manner, that I decided to be equally direct. “Did you come out in that midnight train from New York last Tuesday night?” I began. “I did,” he replied, in even tones. “While on the train did you sit behind a lady who left a gold bag in the seat when she got out?” “I did.” “Did you pick up that bag and take it away with you?” “I did.” “Then, Mr. Crawford, as that is the gold bag that was found in your brother's office, I think you owe a more detailed explanation.” To say that the lawyer and the district attorney, who heard these questions and answers, were astounded, is putting it too mildly. They were almost paralyzed with surprise and dismay. To hear these condemning assertions straight from the lips of the man they incriminated was startling indeed. “You are right,” said Philip Crawford. “I do owe an explanation, and I shall give it here and now.” Although what he was going to say was doubtless a confession, Mr. Crawford's face showed an unmistakable expression of relief. He seemed like a man who had borne a terrible secret around with him for the past week, and was now glad that he was about to impart it to some one else. He spoke very gravely, but with no faltering or hesitation. “This is a solemn confession,” he said, turning to his lawyer, “and is made to the district attorney, with yourself and Mr. Burroughs as witnesses.” Mr. Randolph bowed his head, in acknowledgment of this formal statement. “I am a criminal in the eyes of the law,” said Mr. Crawford, in an impersonal tone, which I knew he adopted to hide any emotion he might feel. “I have committed a dastardly crime. But I am not the murderer of my brother Joseph.” We all felt our hearts lightened of a great load, for it was impossible to disbelieve that calm statement and the clear gaze of those truthful, unafraid eyes. “The story I have to tell will sound as if I might have been my brother's slayer, and this is why I assert the contrary at the outset.” Pausing here, Mr. Crawford unlocked the drawer of a desk and took out a small pistol, which he laid on the table. “That,” he said, “is my revolver, and it is the weapon with which my brother was killed.”