“I am not asking for any such consideration,” said Philip Crawford.  “If you decide upon such a course, it will be entirely of your own volition.”

The district attorney hesitated.

“Speaking personally,” he said, at last, “I may say that I place full credence in Mr. Crawford’s story.  I am entirely convinced of the absolute truth of all his statements.  But, speaking officially, I may say that in a court of justice witnesses would be required, who could corroborate his words.”

“But such witnesses are manifestly impossible to procure,” said Mr. Randolph.

“Certainly they are,” I agreed, “and I should like to make this suggestion:  Believing, as we do, in Mr. Crawford’s story, it becomes important testimony in the case.  Now, if it were made public, it would lose its importance, for it would set ignorant tongues wagging, and give rise to absurd and untrue theories, and result in blocking our best-meant efforts.  So I propose that we keep the matter to ourselves for a time—­say a week or a fortnight—­keeping Mr. Crawford under surveillance, if need be.  Then we can work on the case, with the benefit of the suggestions offered by Mr. Crawford’s revelations; and I, for one, think such benefit of immense importance.”

“That will do,” said Mr. Goodrich, whose troubled face had cleared at my suggestion.  “You are quite right, Mr. Burroughs.  And the `surveillance’ will be a mere empty formality.  For a man who has confessed as Mr. Crawford has done, is not going to run away from the consequences of his confession.”

“I am not,” said Mr. Crawford.  “And I am grateful for this respite from unpleasant publicity.  I will take my punishment when it comes, but I feel with Mr. Burroughs that more progress can be made if what I have told you is not at once generally known.”

“Where now does suspicion point?”

It was Mr. Randolph who spoke.  His legal mind had already gone ahead of the present occasion, and was applying the new facts to the old theories.

“To Gregory Hall,” said the district attorney.

“Wait,” said I.  “If Mr. Crawford left the bag and the newspaper in the office, we have no evidence whatever that Mr. Hall came out on that late train.”

“Nor did he need to,” said Mr. Goodrich, who was thinking rapidly.  “He might have come on an earlier train, or, for that matter, not by train at all.  He may have come out from town in a motor car.”

This was possible; but it did not seem to me probable.  A motor car was a conspicuous way for a man to come out from New York and return, if he wished to keep his visit secret.  Still, he could have left the car at some distance from the house, and walked the rest of the way.

“Did Mr. Hall know that a revolver was kept in Mr. Crawford’s desk drawer?” I asked.

“He did,” replied Philip Crawford.  “He was present when I took my pistol over to Joseph.”