The Gold Bag. Wells Carolyn

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      He spoke often to the coroner, saying things which seemed to me impertinent, such as, “Have you noticed the blotter, Mr. Coroner? Very often, you know, much may be learned from the blotter on a man’s desk.”

      As the large blotter in question was by no means fresh, indeed was thickly covered with ink impressions, and as there was nothing to indicate that Mr. Crawford had been engaged in writing immediately before his death, Mr. Orville’s suggestion was somewhat irrelevant. And, too, the jurors were not detectives seeking clues, but were now merely learning the known facts.

      However, Mr. Orville fussed around, even looking into the wastebasket, and turning up a corner of a large rug as if ferreting for evidence.

      The others exhibited no such minute curiosity, and, after a few moments, they followed the coroner out of the room.

      Then the doctor and his assistants came to take the body away, and I went in search of Coroner Monroe, eager for further information concerning the case, of which I really, as yet, knew but little.

      Parmalee went with me and we found Mr. Monroe in the library, quite ready to talk with us.

      “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?”

      “They are both in their rooms. Mrs. Pierce is prostrated at the tragedy, and Miss Lloyd simply refuses to make her appearance.”

      “But she’ll have to attend the inquest?”

      “Oh, yes, of course. She’ll be with us then. I think I won’t say anything about her to you, as I’d rather you’d see her first with entirely unprejudiced eyes.”

      “So you, too, think Miss Lloyd is implicated?”

      “I don’t think anything about it, Mr. Burroughs. As coroner it is not my place to think along such lines.”

      “Well, everybody else thinks so,” broke in Parmalee. “And why? Because there’s no one else for suspicion to light on. No one else who by any possibility could have done the deed.”

      “Oh, come now, Mr. Parmalee,” said I, “there must be others. They may not yet have come to our notice, but surely you must admit an intruder could have come into the room by way of those long, open windows.”

      “These speculations are useless, gentlemen,” said Mr. Monroe, with his usual air of settling the matter. “Cease then, I beg, or at least postpone them. If you are walking down the avenue, Mr. Parmalee, perhaps you’ll be good enough to conduct Mr. Burroughs to the Sedgwick Arms, where he doubtless can find comfortable accommodations.”

      I thanked Mr. Monroe for the suggestion, but said, straightforwardly enough, that I was not yet quite ready to leave the Crawford house, but that I would not detain Mr. Parmalee, for I could myself find my way to the inn, having noticed it on my drive from the train.

      So Parmalee went away, and I was about to return to Mr. Crawford’s office where I hoped to pursue a little uninterrupted investigation.

      But Mr. Monroe detained me a moment, to present me to a tall, fine-looking man who had just come in.

      He proved to be Philip Crawford, a brother of Joseph, and I at once observed a strong resemblance between their two faces.

      “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Burroughs,” he said. “Mr. Monroe tells me you are a clever and experienced detective, and I trust you can help us to avenge this dastardly crime. I am busy with some important matters just now, but later I shall be glad to confer with you, and be of any help I can in your investigation.”

      I looked at Mr. Philip Crawford curiously. Of course I didn’t expect him to give way to emotional grief, but it jarred on me to hear him refer to his brother’s tragic death in such cold tones, and with such a businesslike demeanor.

      However, I realized I did not know the man at all, and this attitude might be due to his effort in concealing his real feelings.

      He looked very like his brother Joseph, and I gathered from the appearance of both men, and the СКАЧАТЬ