That afternoon I was summoned to Mr. Philip Crawford's house to be present at the informal court of inquiry which was to interrogate Gregory Hall. Hall was summoned by telephone, and not long after he arrived. He was cool and collected, as usual, and I wondered if even his arrest would disturb his calm. “We are pursuing the investigation of Mr. Joseph Crawford's death, Mr. Hall,” the district attorney began, “and we wish, in the course of our inquiries, to ask some questions of you.” “Certainly, sir,” said Gregory Hall, with an air of polite indifference. “And I may as well tell you at the outset,” went on Mr. Goodrich, a little irritated at the young man's attitude, “that you, Mr. Hall, are under suspicion.” “Yes?” said Hall interrogatively. “But I was not here that night.” “That's just the point, sir. You say you were not here, but you refuse to say where you were. Now, wherever you may have been that night, a frank admission of it will do you less harm than this incriminating concealment of the truth.” “In that case,” said Hall easily, “I suppose I may as well tell you. But first, since you practically accuse me, may I ask if any new developments have been brought to light?” “One has,” said Mr. Goodrich. “The missing will has been found.” “What?” cried Hall, unable to conceal his satisfaction at this information. “Yes,” said Mr. Goodrich coldly, disgusted at the plainly apparent mercenary spirit of the man; “yes, the will of Mr. Joseph Crawford, which bequeaths the bulk of his estate to Miss Lloyd, is safe in Mr. Randolph's possession. But that fact in no way affects your connection with the case, or our desire to learn where you were on Tuesday night.” “Pardon me, Mr. Goodrich; I didn't hear all that you said.” Bluffing again, thought I; and, truly, it seemed to me rather a clever way to gain time for consideration, and yet let his answers appear spontaneous. The district attorney repeated his question, and now Gregory Hall answered deliberately, “I still refuse to tell you where I was. It in no way affects the case; it is a private matter of my own. I was in New York City from the time I left West Sedgwick at six o'clock on Monday, until I returned the next morning. Further than that I will give no account of my doings.” “Then we must assume you were engaged in some occupation of which you are ashamed to tell.” Hall shrugged his shoulders. “You may assume what you choose,” he said. “I was not here, I had no hand in Mr. Crawford's death, and knew nothing of it until my return next day.” “You knew Mr. Crawford kept a revolver in his desk. You must know it is not there now.” Hall looked troubled. “I know nothing about that revolver,” he said. “I saw it the day Mr. Philip Crawford brought it there, but I have never seen it since.” This sounded honest enough, but if he were the criminal, he would, of course, make these same avowals.