He was a young man of the type often seen among Americans. He was very fair, with a pink complexion, thin, yellow hair and weak eyes. His manner was nervously alert, and though he often began to speak with an air of positiveness, he frequently seemed to weaken, and wound up his sentences in a floundering uncertainty. He seemed to be in no way jealous of my presence there, and indeed spoke to me with an air of comradeship. Doubtless I was unreasonable, but I secretly resented this. However I did not show my resentment and endeavored to treat Mr. Parmalee as a friend and co-worker. The coroner had left us together, and we stood in the drawing-room, talking, or rather he talked and I listened. Upon acquaintance he seemed to grow more attractive. He was impulsive and jumped at conclusions, but he seemed to have ideas, though they were rarely definitely expressed. He told me as much as he knew of the details of the affair and proposed that we go directly to the scene of the crime. As this was what I was impatient to do, I consented. “You see, it's this way,” he said, in a confidential whisper, as we traversed the long hall: “there is no doubt in any one's mind as to who committed the murder, but no name has been mentioned yet, and nobody wants to be the first to say that name. It'll come out at the inquest, of course, and then--” “But,” I interrupted, “if the identity of the murderer is so certain, why did they send for me in such haste?” “Oh, that was the coroner's doing. He's a bit inclined to the spectacular, is Monroe, and he wants to make the whole affair as important as possible.” “But surely, Mr. Parmalee, if you are certain of the criminal it is very absurd for me to take up the case at all.” “Oh, well, Mr. Burroughs, as I say, no name has been spoken yet. And, too, a big case like this ought to have a city detective on it. Even if you only corroborate what we all feel sure of, it will prove to the public mind that it must be so.” “Tell me then, who is your suspect?” “Oh, no, since you are here you had better investigate with an unprejudiced mind. Though you cannot help arriving at the inevitable conclusion.” We had now reached a closed door, and, at Mr. Parmalee's tap, were admitted by the inspector who was in charge of the room. It was a beautiful apartment, far too rich and elaborate to be designated by the name of “office,” as it was called by every one who spoke of it; though of course it was Mr. Crawford's office, as was shown by the immense table-desk of dark mahogany, and all the other paraphernalia of a banker's work-room, from ticker to typewriter.