He spoke often to the coroner, saying things which seemed to me impertinent, such as, “Have you noticed the blotter, Mr. Coroner?  Very often, you know, much may be learned from the blotter on a man’s desk.”

As the large blotter in question was by no means fresh, indeed was thickly covered with ink impressions, and as there was nothing to indicate that Mr. Crawford had been engaged in writing immediately before his death, Mr. Orville’s suggestion was somewhat irrelevant.  And, too, the jurors were not detectives seeking clues, but were now merely learning the known facts.

However, Mr. Orville fussed around, even looking into the wastebasket, and turning up a corner of a large rug as if ferreting for evidence.

The others exhibited no such minute curiosity, and, after a few moments, they followed the coroner out of the room.

Then the doctor and his assistants came to take the body away, and I went in search of Coroner Monroe, eager for further information concerning the case, of which I really, as yet, knew but little.

Parmalee went with me and we found Mr. Monroe in the library, quite ready to talk with us.

“Mr. Orville seems to possess the detective instinct himself,” observed Mr. Parmalee, with what seemed like a note of jealousy in his tone.

“The true detective mind,” returned Mr. Monroe, with his slow pomposity, “is not dependent on instinct or intuition.”

“Oh, I think it is largely dependent on that,” I said, “or where does it differ from the ordinary inquiring mind?”

“I’m sure you will agree with me, Mr. Burroughs,” the coroner went on, almost as if I had not spoken, “that it depends upon a nicely adjusted mentality that is quick to see the cause back of an effect.”

To me this seemed a fair definition of intuition, but there was something in the unctuous roll of Mr. Monroe’s words that made me positive he was quoting his somewhat erudite speech, and had not himself a perfectly clear comprehension of its meaning.

“It’s guessing,” declared Parmalee, “that’s all it is, guessing.  If you guess right, you’re a famous detective; if you guess wrong, you’re a dub.  That’s all there is about it.”

“No, no, Mr. Parmalee,”—­and Mr. Monroe slowly shook his finger at the rash youth—­“what you call guessing is really divination.  Yes, my dear sir, it is actual divination.”

“To my mind,” I put in, “detective divination is merely minute observation.  But why do we quibble over words and definitions when there is much work to be done?  When is the formal inquest to be held, Mr. Monroe?”

“This afternoon at two o’clock,” he replied.

“Then I’ll go away now,” I said, “for I must find an abiding place for myself in West Sedgwick.  There is an inn, I suppose.”

“They’ll probably ask you to stay here,” observed Coroner Monroe, “but I advise you not to do so.  I think you’ll be freer and less hampered in your work if you go to the inn.”