“Then it would seem,” she said slowly, “that as I, myself, was in Uncle’s office at about eleven o’clock, and as Uncle Philip was there a little after one o’clock, whoever killed Uncle Joseph came and went away between those hours.”

“Yes,” I said, and I knew that her thoughts had flown to Gregory Hall.  “But I think there are no trains in and out again of West Sedgwick between those hours.”

“He need not have come in a train,” said Florence slowly, as if simply voicing her thoughts.

“Don’t attempt to solve the mystery, Florence,” said Mr. Porter in his decided way.  “Leave that for those who make it their business.  Mr. Burroughs, I am sure, will do all he can, and it is not for you to trouble your already sad heart with these anxieties.  Give it up, my girl, for it means only useless exertion on your part.”

“And on my part too, I fear, Mr. Porter,” I said.  “Without wishing to shirk my duty, I can’t help feeling I’m up against a problem that to me is insoluble.  It is my desire, since the case is baffling, to call in talent of a higher order.  Fleming Stone, for instance.”

Mr. Porter gave me a sudden glance, and it was a glance I could not understand.  For an instant it seemed to me that he showed fear, and this thought was instantly followed by the impression that he feared for Florence.  And then I chid myself for my foolish heart that made every thought that entered my brain lead to Florence Lloyd.  With my mind in this commotion I scarcely heard Mr. Porter’s words.

“No, no,” he was saying, “we need no other or cleverer detective than you, Mr. Burroughs.  If, as Florence says, the murderer was clever enough to come between those two hours, and go away again, leaving no sign, he is probably clever enough so to conceal his coming and going that he may not be traced.”

“But, Mr. Porter,” I observed, “they say murder will out.”

Again that strange look came into his eyes.  Surely it was an expression of fear.  But he only said, “Then you’re the man to bring that result about, Mr. Burroughs.  I have great confidence in your powers as a detective.”

He took his leave, and I was not sorry, for I wanted an opportunity to see Florence alone.

“I am so sorry,” she said, and for the first time I saw tears in her dear, beautiful eyes, “to hear that about Uncle Philip.  But Mr. Porter was right, he was not himself, or he never could have done it.”

“It was an awful thing for him to find his brother as he did, and go away and leave him so.”

“Awful, indeed!  But the Crawfords have always been strange in their ways.  I have never seen one of them show emotion or sentiment upon any occasion.”

“Now you are again an heiress,” I said, suddenly realizing the fact.

“Yes,” she said, but her tone indicated that her fortune brought in its train many perplexing troubles and many grave questions.