In sheer desperation, I resolved upon an interview with Inspector Crawford. I hadn't a very high opinion of him as a detective, but I had reached the pitch where I must do something.

I telephoned to him, but it was only after some persistence that I could persuade him to give me even a little of his valuable time. Finally he agreed to a fifteen-minute interview at his own home.

It was not far to his house, and as I walked over there I wondered why he seemed so averse to a discussion of the Pembroke case. He had impressed me, when I saw him that morning, as one of those busybodies in the detective line who are always willing to dilate upon their clues and their deductions, their theories and their inferences.

But as soon as I began to talk with Mr. Crawford I learned that he had little interest in the Pembroke case, because he considered its result a foregone conclusion.

Inspector Crawford was not an especially cultured man, nor of a particularly affable nature, but he was possessed, as I soon learned, of a certain stubbornness which manifested itself mainly in adhering firmly to his own decisions.

"I know Miss Pembroke killed her uncle," he said, "because nobody else could by any possibility have done it. I examined the windows myself. Those which were fastened were absolutely immovable from the outside, and those which were unfastened had the same sort of catches, and the black woman declared she had unfastened them from the inside in the morning. The window opening on the fire escape had a double lock, the dumb-waiter was securely bolted on the kitchen side, the night-latch and chain were on the front door, and, therefore, my dear sir, to get into that apartment without breaking something was as impossible as if it had been hermetically sealed."

"Some one might have cut out a pane of glass and replaced it," I suggested.

The inspector looked at me with a glance almost of pity.

"It's my business to make sure of such things," he said. "Of course I thought of that, and examined every window-pane. Had one been put in with fresh putty during the night, I should certainly have detected it. If you examine them, you will find both putty and paint hard and weather-stained."

My respect for Mr. Crawford's detective ability rose rapidly, and I frankly told him so.

He smiled disinterestedly.

"I'm not one of those spectacular detectives," he said, "who pick up a handkerchief in the street, and declare at once that it was dropped by a cross-eyed lady with one front tooth missing, who was on her way to visit her step-daughter now living in Jamaica, Long Island, but who formerly was a governess in a doctor's family in Meriden, Connecticut."

I laughed at this bit of sarcasm, but was too vitally interested in the subject in hand to care for amusing side issues.

"Do you say then, inspector," I continued, "that there was positively no way for any one else to get into that apartment, and that therefore Mr. Pembroke necessarily met his death at the hands of his niece or the colored servant?"

"Or both," added Mr. Crawford.

"You assert that as your unqualified opinion?"

"I assert it as an incontrovertible fact," said Inspector Crawford, in his decided way, "and, though it needs no backing up of evidence, the evidence all points unmistakably to the same fact. There are motive, opportunity, and a weapon at hand. What more is there to say?"

"There is only this to say," I declared, maddened by his air of finality: "that Miss Pembroke did not do it; that neither she nor the black woman knows who did do it; and that I take it upon myself to prove this when the occasion shall arise to do so."

Again the inspector looked at me with that compassionate expression that irritated me beyond words.

"Mr. Landon," he said, "I have no desire to be personal, but may I ask you, if you were as absolutely disinterested in the Pembroke case as I am, would you not incline to my opinion?"

This silenced me, for I well knew that but for my interest in Janet Pembroke I should inevitably be forced to Mr. Crawford's point of view.

"Ah!" he said. "I thought so. Now let me tell you, Mr. Landon—and I am indeed sorry to tell you—that there is no possible way to get that girl acquitted, and that your best plan is to work simply for the lightest possible penalty. If you can plead self-defence, temporary insanity, or even somnambulism, I advise you to do so."

"I thank you, inspector, for your advice, and regret to say that I cannot follow it. I shall plead 'not guilty,' and I shall prove my case."

The inspector began to look interested, for, though a man may not boast of his own reputation, I may say that Mr. Crawford knew me as a lawyer of long practice and wide experience; and knew, too, that I had been successful in cases where wise and anxious judges had scarcely dared hope for it.

"I hope it may be so," he said. "It does not seem to be possible, but, of course, no man's judgment is infallible. Might I be allowed, however, to ask your line of defence?"

"I don't know exactly, myself," I confessed; "but I think it will implicate George Lawrence."

"But he couldn't get in."

"Inspector, if any one is implicated other than those two women, it must necessarily be some one who 'couldn't get in.'"

"That is true," said the inspector; "but, all the same, a murder can't be committed by a man who can't get in."

"That is no more impossible," I said stanchly, "than a murder committed by either of those two women."

Again the inspector contented himself with a smile.

"I have no reason," I went on, "for suspecting George Lawrence, except that he could be said to have a motive. I admit, as you say, that it does not seem possible for him to have entered the apartment, unless one of the women let him in."

"Let him in!" echoed the inspector. "I hadn't thought of that! Ah, now I see your idea. If George Lawrence is the man who did the deed and was let in by his cousin, while she might have been accessory, she might not have known of the deed at all."

"That is possible, inspector," I agreed; "but had she let George in, she must have again put the chain on the door after he went out. This is scarcely compatible with the assumption that she knew nothing of what had happened in the meantime."

"No," declared the inspector, in his decided way. "Your suggestion, however, leads to a new line of investigation. But say George Lawrence had gone to the Pembrokes' apartment last night, and had come away again, the elevator boy would have known it, and would have given evidence this morning; that is, unless he had been bribed, which is, of course, possible. But all this will be brought out at the trial."

"Not so fast, inspector," I said, feeling a grim delight in bringing him up with a round turn. "George Lawrence can prove a complete and perfect alibi, attested by responsible witnesses."

Inspector Crawford looked thoroughly disgusted. "Then the whole matter stands where it did at first," he said, "though, of course, we must remember that, since the women could have let in George Lawrence, they could, of course, have let in any one else, had they been so minded. But all this is in your province, rather than in mine, and if you can find anybody who is likely to have gone in there last night, with or without criminal intent, I think for your own sake you had better make investigation along that line."

"Mr. Crawford," I said, "I would not have mentioned to you even the name of George Lawrence in this connection if I could have done what I wanted to without your assistance. I want to go to George Lawrence's apartment, and make a search of his rooms. I have not a definite reason for doing this, but I feel that it may lead to something. I cannot say I suspect George Lawrence of the crime. I cannot doubt his alibi, nor can I imagine how he could have gotten into the apartment had he wanted to. But I do know that he had, or at least might possibly have had, a motive for desiring his uncle's death, and upon that perhaps irrelevant fact I base what I shall not call a suspicion, but an interest into looking into his affairs. I could not go through his rooms alone, but as an inspector you will be allowed to do so, and I want to go with you and at once."

I may have been mistaken in Mr. Crawford's inclination toward detective work. Although he had seemed indifferent when he had been so sure of his conclusion, the mere opportunity of searching for clues seemed to stir him to action, and, to my surprise, he was not only willing but anxious to go with me at once.

As I knew Lawrence would spend the entire afternoon in his work of looking over Mr. Pembroke's papers, I felt that the coast was clear for an hour or so, at least. So together we took a Broadway car, and were not long in reaching Washington Square.

The inspector's badge, of course, gained him access at once to George's apartment, and I followed him into the rooms, feeling that if there was anything even remotely approaching a clue, I must and would find it.

Though not luxurious, Lawrence's quarters were exceedingly comfortable. There was a studio, not large, but well lighted and furnished in a way that showed its use as a living-room, and perhaps for small social functions as well. A bedroom and bath completed the suite, and the inspector told me to begin my search.

"Let us examine the place," he said, "independently of each other, and afterward we can compare notes. I confess I have little hope of finding evidence of any sort. Of course I don't for a moment think that, even had Lawrence killed his uncle, he would have broken off that hat-pin and brought it home here to incriminate himself."

"Of course not," I assented; "but, by the way, where is the other half of that hat-pin?"

The inspector gave his queer smile. "Assuming a woman to have done the deed," he said, "we must assume her to be clever enough to dispose of a piece of a broken hat-pin."

My heart sank at his words, for I saw how deeply rooted was his belief in Janet's guilt, and I feared a judge and jury might look at it in the same way.

Silently we began our search. I took the studio, and the inspector the bedroom, first; afterward we were to go over each other's ground.

In one way, it seemed a dreadful thing to be poking round among a man's personal belongings; but again, since the cause of justice demanded it, I felt no hesitancy in doing so.

I took little interest in the sketches on the walls or the odd bits of junk and curios on the tables. No man with anything to conceal would leave it in those obvious places.

And yet I was not looking for anything George might have concealed, but rather for some straw which might show the direction of the wind of evidence.

For the first time in my life, I felt like the detective in fiction, and I scrutinized carefully the floor and the rug. It seemed to me that all the clues I had ever read of had been discovered on the floor; but the trouble was that this floor offered so many unexpected substances that the result was distracting. But by no stretch of the imagination could I look upon them as clues. I certainly discovered many things upon the floor that told their own story; but the stories were of no importance. Cigarette or cigar ashes were in such quantity as to indicate recent masculine guests. An artificial violet and a bit of fluffy feather trimming showed perhaps an afternoon tea, or a reception which feminine guests had attended. Lead-pencil shavings here and there betokened the untidiness of an artist, and splashes of ink or water-color, though numerous, proved merely that Lawrence had spoken the truth regarding his profession.

Though disheartened by my non-success, I kept on until I had examined every square inch of floor. I found nothing unexplainable to the most ordinary intellect, except a few tiny bits of broken glass on the hearthstone. So infinitesimal were these fragments that I almost missed them, and, though I could not think them of any importance, I took them up on a bit of white paper and examined them by the light. They were of a pinkish purple color, and I wondered if they could be bits of a druggist's phial which had contained poison. The notion was absurd enough, for Mr. Pembroke had not been poisoned, and, moreover, even granting my hypothesis a true one, those few specks of glass would represent only a small fraction of a broken bottle.

But he might have dropped it, my imagination rambled on, and smashed it, and then swept up all the fragments, as he thought, but overlooked these specks.

At any rate, I put the paper containing the bits in my pocket, and went on with my search. Feeling that I had finished the floor, I examined all the furniture and decorations, paying no attention to Lawrence's desk or personal belongings.

Mr. Crawford came in from the bedroom. "I've done up my room," he said, "and there's nothing there at all, not even a revolver. Now, if you're through here, we will change territory."

"I can't find anything," I returned, and as I spoke the inspector went straight to the writing-desk.

"If there is nothing here," he said, "I give it up."

With a practised hand he ran swiftly through Lawrence's papers.

"H'm!" he said. "Our young friend has been dabbling in stocks. Bought L.&C.Q. on a margin. That's bad, for it dropped 'way down day before yesterday. That ought to help along your 'motive,' Mr. Landon, for as sure as I sit here George Lawrence must have lost many thousands in Wall Street on Wednesday."

"It is corroborative," I said, "but that's all. Granting Lawrence's motive for desiring to inherit his uncle's money at once, there is no real evidence that he helped matters along by putting the old gentleman out of the way."

"Not a bit," agreed Inspector Crawford; "and you mark my word, Mr. Landon, if there was any reason for suspecting young Lawrence, it would have turned up before this."

"I'm not so sure of that," I returned; "and it isn't exactly evidence I'm after, but merely a hint as to how he could have done it."

"Ah!" said the inspector, smiling again. "He couldn't have done it save with the knowledge and assistance of his cousin."