“Then we must assume you were engaged in some occupation of which you are ashamed to tell.”

Hall shrugged his shoulders.  “You may assume what you choose,” he said.  “I was not here, I had no hand in Mr. Crawford’s death, and knew nothing of it until my return next day.”

“You knew Mr. Crawford kept a revolver in his desk.  You must know it is not there now.”

Hall looked troubled.

“I know nothing about that revolver,” he said.  “I saw it the day Mr. Philip Crawford brought it there, but I have never seen it since.”

This sounded honest enough, but if he were the criminal, he would, of course, make these same avowals.

“Well, Mr. Hall,” said the district attorney, with an air of finality, “we suspect you.  We hold that you had motive, opportunity, and means for this crime.  Therefore, unless you can prove an alibi for Tuesday night, and bring witnesses to grove where you, were, we must arrest you, on suspicion, for the murder of Joseph Crawford.”

Gregory Hall deliberated silently for a few moments, then he said: 

“I am innocent.  But I persist in my refusal to allow intrusion on my private and personal affairs.  Arrest me if you will, but you will yet learn your mistake.”

I can never explain it, even to myself, but something in the man’s tone and manner convinced me, even against my own will, that he spoke the truth.

XX

FLEMING STONE

The news of Gregory Hall’s arrest flew through the town like wildfire.

That evening I went to call on Florence Lloyd, though I had little hope that she would see me.

To my surprise, however, she welcomed me almost eagerly, and, though I knew she wanted to see me only for what legal help I might give her, I was glad even of this.

And yet her manner was far from impersonal.  Indeed, she showed a slight embarrassment in my presence, which, if I had dared, I should have been glad to think meant a growing interest in our friendship.

“You have heard all?” I asked, knowing from her manner that she had.

“Yes,” she replied; “Mr. Hall was here for dinner, and then—­ then he went away to—­”

“To prison,” I finished quietly.  “Florence, I cannot think he is the murderer of your uncle.”

If she noticed this, my first use of her Christian name, she offered no remonstrance, and I went on

“To be sure, they have proved that he had motive, means, opportunity, and all that, but it is only indefinite evidence.  If he would but tell where he was on Tuesday night, he could so easily free himself.  Why will he not tell?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking thoughtful.  “But I cannot think he was here, either.  When he said good-by to me to-night, he did not seem at all apprehensive.  He only said he was arrested wrongfully, and that he would soon be set free again.  You know his way of taking everything casually.”