“Then,” said Mr. Goodrich, “the case looks to me very serious against Mr. Hall.  We have proved his motive, his opportunity, and his method, or, rather, means, of committing the crime.  Add to this his unwillingness to tell where he was on Tuesday night, and I see sufficient justification for issuing a warrant for his arrest.”

“I don’t know,” said Philip Crawford, “whether such immediate measures are advisable.  I don’t want to influence you, Mr. Goodrich, but suppose we see Mr. Hall, and question him a little.  Then, if it seems to you best, arrest him.”

“That is a good suggestion, Mr. Crawford,” said the district attorney.  “We can have a sort of court of inquiry by ourselves, and perhaps Mr. Hall will, by his own words, justify or relieve our suspicions.”

I went away from Mr. Crawford’s house, and went straight to Florence Lloyd’s.  I did this almost involuntarily.  Perhaps if I had stopped to think, I might have realized that it did not devolve upon me to tell her of Philip Crawford’s confession.  But I wanted to tell her myself, because I hoped that from her manner of hearing the story I could learn something.  I still believed that in trying to shield Hall, she had not yet been entirely frank with me, and at any rate, I wanted to be the one to tell her of the important recent discovery.

When I arrived, I found Mr. Porter in the library talking with Florence.  At first I hesitated about telling my story before him, and then I remembered that he was one of the best of Florence’s friends and advisers, and moreover a man of sound judgment and great perspicacity.  Needless to say, they were both amazed and almost stunned by the recital, and it was some time before they could take in the situation in all its bearings.  We had a long, grave conversation, for the three of us were not influenced so much by the sensationalness of this new development, as by the question of whither it led.  Of course the secret was as safe with these two, as with those of us who had heard it directly from Philip Crawford’s lips.

“I understand Philip Crawford’s action,” said Mr. Porter, very seriously.  “In the first place he was not quite himself, owing to the sudden shock of seeing his brother dead before his eyes.  Also the sight of his own pistol, with which the deed had evidently been committed, unnerved him.  It was an almost unconscious nervous action which made him take the pistol, and it was a sort of subconscious mental working that resulted in his abstracting the will.  Had he been in full possession of his brain faculty, he could not have done either.  He did wrong, of course, but he has made full restitution, and his wrong-doing should not only be forgiven but forgotten.”

I looked at Mr. Porter in unfeigned admiration.  Truly he had expressed noble sentiments, and his must be a broadly noble nature that could show such a spirit toward his fellow man.

Florence, too, gave him an appreciative glance, but her mind seemed to be working on the possibilities of the new evidence.