“Right you are, there! In fact, I always felt he was marrying Florence for her money. I had no real reason to think this, but somehow he gave me that impression.” “Me, too. Moreover, I found a late extra of a New York paper in Mr. Crawford's office. This wasn't on sale until about half past eleven that night, so whoever left it there must have come out from the city on that midnight train, or later.” A change came over Philip Crawford's face. Apparently he was brought to see the whole matter in a new light. “What? What's that?” he cried excitedly, grasping his chair-arms and half rising. “A late newspaper! An extra!” “Yes; the liner accident, you know.” “But--but--Gregory Hall! Why man, you're crazy! Hall is a good fellow. Not remarkably clever, perhaps, and a fortune-hunter, maybe, but not--surely not a murderer!” “Don't take it so hard, Mr. Crawford,” I broke in. “Probably. Mr. Hall is innocent. But the late paper must have been left there by some one, after, say, one o'clock.” “This is awful! This is terrible!” groaned the poor man, and I couldn't help wondering if he had some other evidence against Hall that this seemed to corroborate. Then, by an effort, he recovered himself, and began to talk in more normal tones. “Now, don't let this new idea run away with you, Mr. Burroughs,” he said. “If Hall had an interview with my brother that night, he would have learned from him that he intended to make a new will, but hadn't yet done so.” “Exactly; and that would constitute a motive for putting Mr. Crawford out of the way before he could accomplish his purpose.” “But Joseph had already destroyed the will that favored Florence.” “We don't know that,” I responded gravely. “And, anyway, if he had done so, Mr. Hall didn't know it. This leaves his motive unchanged.” “But the gold bag,” said Mr. Crawford, apparently to get away--from the subject of Gregory Hall. “If, as you say,” I began, “that is Florence's bag--” I couldn't go on. A strange sense of duty had forced those words from me, but I could say no more. Fleming Stone might take the case if they wanted him to; or they might get some one else. But I could not go on, when the only clues discoverable pointed in a way I dared not look. Philip Crawford was ghastly now. His face was working and he breathed quickly. “Nonsense, Dad!” cried a strong, young voice, and his son, Philip, Jr., bounded into the room and grasped his father's hands. “I overheard a few of your last words, and you two are on the wrong track. Florrie's no more mixed up in that horrible business than I am. Neither is Hall. He's a fool chap, but no villain. I heard what you said about the late newspaper, but lots of people come out on that midnight train. You may as well suspect some peaceable citizen coming home from the theatre, as to pick out poor Hall, without a scrap of evidence to point to him.”