“But I’d like to help him,” said Florence, almost timidly.  “Is there no way I can do so, Mr. Burroughs?”

“Indeed there is,” I said.  “You are a rich woman now; use some of your wealth to employ the services of Fleming Stone, and I can assure you the truth will be discovered.”

“Indeed I will,” said Florence.  “Please send for him at once.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Porter.  “It isn’t necessary at all.  Mr. Burroughs here, and young Parmalee, are all the detectives we need.  Get Hall to free himself, as he can easily do, and then set to work in earnest to run down the real villain.”

“No, Mr. Porter,” said Florence, with firmness; “Gregory will not tell his secret, whatever it is.  I know his stubborn nature.  He’ll stay in prison until he’s freed, as he is sure he will be, but he won’t tell what he has determined not to divulge.  No, I am glad I can do something definite at last toward avenging Uncle Joseph’s death.  Please send for Mr. Stone, Mr. Burroughs, and I will gladly pay his fees and expenses.”  Mr. Porter expostulated further, but to no avail.  Florence insisted on sending for the great detective.

So I sent for him.

He came two days later, and in the interval nothing further had been learned from Gregory Hall.  The man was an enigma to me.  He was calm and impassive as ever.  Courteous, though never cordial, and apparently without the least apprehension of ever being convicted for the crime which had caused his arrest.

Indeed, he acted just as an innocent man would act; innocent of the murder, that is, but resolved to conceal his whereabouts of Tuesday night, whatever that resolve might imply.

To me, it did not imply crime.  Something he wished to conceal, certainly; but I could not think a criminal would act so.  A criminal is usually ready with an alibi, whether it can be proved or not.

When Fleming Stone arrived I met him at the station and took him at once to the inn, where I had engaged rooms for him.

We first had a long conversation alone, in which I told him, everything I knew concerning the murder.

“When did it happen?” he asked, for, though he had read some of the newspaper accounts, the date had escaped him.

I told him, and added, “Why, I was called here just after I left you at the Metropolis Hotel that morning.  Don’t you remember, you deduced a lot of information from a pair of shoes which were waiting to be cleaned?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Stone, smiling a little at the recollection.

“And I tried to make similar deductions from the gold bag and the newspaper, but I couldn’t do it.  I bungled matters every time.  My deductions are mostly from the witnesses’ looks or tones when giving evidence.”

“On the stand?”

“Not necessarily on the stand.  I’ve learned much from talking to the principals informally.”

“And where do your suspicions point?”