“Mr. Orville seems to possess the detective instinct himself,” observed Mr. Parmalee, with what seemed like a note of jealousy in his tone. “The true detective mind,” returned Mr. Monroe, with his slow pomposity, “is not dependent on instinct or intuition.” “Oh, I think it is largely dependent on that,” I said, “or where does it differ from the ordinary inquiring mind?” “I'm sure you will agree with me, Mr. Burroughs,” the coroner went on, almost as if I had not spoken, “that it depends upon a nicely adjusted mentality that is quick to see the cause back of an effect.” To me this seemed a fair definition of intuition, but there was something in the unctuous roll of Mr. Monroe's words that made me positive he was quoting his somewhat erudite speech, and had not himself a perfectly clear comprehension of its meaning. “It's guessing,” declared Parmalee, “that's all it is, guessing. If you guess right, you're a famous detective; if you guess wrong, you're a dub. That's all there is about it.” “No, no, Mr. Parmalee,”--and Mr. Monroe slowly shook his finger at the rash youth--“what you call guessing is really divination. Yes, my dear sir, it is actual divination.” “To my mind,” I put in, “detective divination is merely minute observation. But why do we quibble over words and definitions when there is much work to be done? When is the formal inquest to be held, Mr. Monroe?” “This afternoon at two o'clock,” he replied. “Then I'll go away now,” I said, “for I must find an abiding place for myself in West Sedgwick. There is an inn, I suppose.” “They'll probably ask you to stay here,” observed Coroner Monroe, “but I advise you not to do so. I think you'll be freer and less hampered in your work if you go to the inn.” “I quite agree with you,” I replied. “But I see little chance of being invited to stay here. Where is the family? Who are in it?” “Not many. There is Miss Florence Lloyd, a niece of Mr. Crawford. That is, she is the niece of his wife. Mrs. Crawford has been dead many years, and Miss Lloyd has kept house for her uncle all that time. Then there is Mrs. Pierce, an elderly lady and a distant relative of Mr. Crawford's. That is all, except the secretary, Gregory Hall, who lives here much of the time. That is, he has a room here, but often he is in New York or elsewhere on Mr. Crawford's business.” “Mr. Crawford had an office both here and in New York?” I asked. “Yes; and of late years he has stayed at home as much as possible. He went to New York only about three or four days in the week, and conducted his business from here the rest of the time. Young Hall is a clever fellow, and has been Mr. Crawford's righthand man for years.” “Where is he now?” “We think he's in New York, but haven't yet been able to locate him at Mr. Crawford's office there, or at his club. He is engaged to Miss Lloyd, though I understand that the engagement is contrary to Mr. Crawford's wishes.” “And where is Miss Lloyd,--and Mrs. Pierce?”