This was an opening for further conjecture as to the murderer, and I said:  “But the man who killed him must have been his enemy.”

“Yes, sir; but I mean no enemy that anybody knew of.  It must have been some burglar or intruder.”

Though I wanted to learn such facts as the coachman might know, his opinions did not interest me, and I again turned my attention to the beautiful residences we were passing.

“That place over there,” the man went on, pointing with his whip, “is Mr. Philip Crawford’s house—­the brother of my master, sir.  Them red towers, sticking up through the trees, is the house of Mr. Lemuel Porter, a great friend of both the Crawford brothers.  Next, on the left, is the home of Horace Hamilton, the great electrician.  Oh, Sedgwick is full of well-known men, sir, but Joseph Crawford was king of this town.  Nobody’ll deny that.”

I knew of Mr. Crawford’s high standing in the city, and now, learning of his local preeminence, I began to think I was about to engage in what would probably be a very important case.

II

THE CRAWFORD HOUSE

“Here we are, sir,” said the driver, as we turned in at a fine stone gateway.  “This is the Joseph Crawford place.”

He spoke with a sort of reverent pride, and I afterward learned that his devotion to his late master was truly exceptional.

This probably prejudiced him in favor of the Crawford place and all its appurtenances, for, to me, the estate was not so magnificent as some of the others we had passed.  And yet, though not so large, I soon realized that every detail of art or architecture was perfect in its way, and that it was really a gem of a country home to which I had been brought.

We drove along a curving road to the house, passing well-arranged flower beds, and many valuable trees and shrubs.  Reaching the porte cochere the driver stopped, and the groom sprang down to hand me out.

As might be expected, many people were about.  Men stood talking in groups on the veranda, while messengers were seen hastily coming or going through the open front doors.

A waiting servant in the hall at once ushered me into a large room.

The effect of the interior of the house impressed me pleasantly.  As I passed through the wide hall and into the drawing-room, I was conscious of an atmosphere of wealth tempered by good taste and judgment.

The drawing-room was elaborate, though not ostentatious, and seemed well adapted as a social setting for Joseph Crawford and his family.  It should have been inhabited by men and women in gala dress and with smiling society manners.

It was therefore a jarring note when I perceived its only occupant to be a commonplace looking man, in an ill-cut and ill-fitting business suit.  He came forward to greet me, and his manner was a trifle pompous as he announced, “My name is Monroe, and I am the coroner.  You, I think, are Mr. Burroughs, from New York.”