Near these two sat a young man who, I was told, was Gregory Hall, the secretary.  He had been reached by telephone, and had come out from New York, arriving shortly after I had left the Crawford house.

Mr. Hall was what may be termed the average type of young American citizens.  He was fairly good-looking, fairly well-groomed, and so far as I could judge from his demeanor, fairly well-bred.  His dark hair was commonplace, and parted on the side, while his small, carefully arranged mustache was commonplace also.  He looked exactly what he was, the trusted secretary of a financial magnate, and he seemed to me a man whose dress, manner, and speech would always be made appropriate to the occasion or situation.  In fact, so thoroughly did he exhibit just such a demeanor as suited a confidential secretary at the inquest of his murdered employer, that I involuntarily thought what a fine undertaker he would have made.  For, in my experience, no class of men so perfectly adapt themselves to varying atmospheres as undertakers.

Philip Crawford and his son, an athletic looking young chap, were also in this group.  Young Crawford inherited to a degree the fine appearance of his father and uncle, and bade fair to become the same kind of a first-class American citizen as they.

Behind these people, the ones most nearly interested in the procedure, were gathered the several servants of the house.

Lambert, the butler, was first interviewed.

The man was a somewhat pompous, middle-aged Englishman, and though of stolid appearance, his face showed what might perhaps be described as an intelligent stupidity.

After a few formal questions as to his position in the household, the coroner asked him to tell his own story of the early morning.

In a more clear and concise way than I should have thought the man capable of, he detailed his discovery of his master’s body.

“I came down-stairs at seven this morning,” he said, “as I always do.  I opened the house, I saw the cook a few moments about matters pertaining to breakfast, and I attended to my usual duties.  At about half-past seven I went to Mr. Crawford’s office, to set it in order for the day, and as I opened the door I saw him sitting in his chair.  At first I thought he’d dropped asleep there, and been there all night, then in a moment I saw what had happened.”

“Well, what did you do next?” asked the coroner, as the man paused.

“I went in search of Louis, Mr. Crawford’s valet.  He was just coming down the stairs.  He looked surprised, for he said Mr. Crawford was not in his room, and his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“Did he seem alarmed?”

“No, sir.  Not knowing what I knew, he didn’t seemed alarmed.  But he seemed agitated, for of course it was most unusual not finding Mr. Crawford in his own room.”

“How did Louis show his agitation?” broke in Mr. Orville.