I went to the Crawford house on the day of the funeral; but as I reached there somewhat earlier than the hour appointed, I went into the office with the idea of looking about for further clues.

In the office I found Gregory Hall; looking decidedly disturbed.

“I can't find Mr. Crawford's will,” he said, as he successively looked through one drawer after another.

“What!” I responded. “Hasn't that been located already?”

“No; it's this way: I didn't see it here in this office, or in the New York office, so I assumed Mr. Randolph had it in his possession. But it seems he thought it was here, all the time. Only this morning we discovered our mutual error, and Mr. Randolph concluded it must be in Mr. Crawford's safety deposit box at the bank in New York. So Mr. Philip Crawford hurried through his administration papers—he is to be executor of the estate—and went in to get it from the bank. But he has just returned with the word that it wasn't there. So we've no idea where it is.”

“Oh, well,” said I, “since he hadn't yet made the new will he had in mind, everything belongs to Miss Lloyd.”

“That's just the point,” said Hall, his face taking on a despairing look. “If we don't find that will, she gets nothing!”

“How's that?” I said.

“Why, she's really not related to the Crawfords. She's a niece of Joseph Crawford's wife. So in the absence of a will his property will all go to his brother Philip, who is his legal heir.”

“Oho!” I exclaimed. “This is a new development. But the will will turn up.”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure of it,” returned Hall, but his anxious face showed anything but confidence in his own words.

“But,” I went on, “didn't Philip Crawford object to his brother's giving all his fortune to Miss Lloyd?”

“It didn't matter if he did. Nobody could move Joseph Crawford's determination. And I fancy Philip didn't make any great disturbance about it. Of course, Mr. Joseph had a right to do as he chose with his own, and the will gave Philip a nice little sum, any way. Not much, compared to the whole fortune, but, still, a generous bequest.”

“What does Mr. Randolph say?”

“He's completely baffled. He doesn't know what to think.”

“Can it have been stolen?”

“Why, no; who would steal it? I only fear he may have destroyed it because he expected to make a different one. In that case, Florence is penniless, save for such bounty as Philip Crawford chooses to bestow on her.”

I didn't like the tone in which Hall said this. It was distinctly aggrieved, and gave the impression that Florence Lloyd, penniless, was of far less importance than Miss Lloyd, the heiress of her uncle's millions.

“But he would doubtless provide properly for her,” I said.

“Oh, yes, properly. But she would find herself in a very different position, dependent on his generosity, from what she would be as sole heir to her uncle's fortune.”

I looked steadily at the man. Although not well acquainted with him, I couldn't resist giving expression to my thought.

“But since you are to marry her,” I said, “she need not long be dependent upon her uncle's charity.”

“Philip Crawford isn't really her uncle, and no one can say what he will do in the matter.”

Gregory Hall was evidently greatly disturbed at the new situation brought about by the disappearance of Mr. Crawford's will. But apparently the main reason for his disturbance was the impending poverty of his fiancee. There was no doubt that Mr. Carstairs and others who had called this man a fortune-hunter had judged him rightly.

However, without further words on the subject, I waited while Hall locked the door of the office, and then we went together to the great drawing-room, where the funeral services were about to take place.

I purposely selected a position from which I could see the faces of the group of people most nearly connected with the dead man. I had a strange feeling, as I looked at them, that one of them might be the instrument of the crime which had brought about this funeral occasion.

During the services I looked closely and in turn at each face, but beyond the natural emotions of grief which might be expected, I could read nothing more.

The brother, Philip Crawford, the near neighbors, Mr. Porter and Mr. Hamilton, the lawyer, Mr. Randolph, all sat looking grave and solemn as they heard the last words spoken above their dead friend. The ladies of the household, quietly controlling their emotions, sat near me, and next to Florence Lloyd Gregory Hall had seated himself.

All of these people I watched closely, half hoping that some inadvertent sign might tell me of someone's knowledge of the secret. But when the clergyman referred to the retribution that would sooner or later overtake the criminal. I could see an expression of fear or apprehension on no face save that of Florence Lloyd. She turned even whiter than before, her pale lips compressed in a straight line, and her small black gloved hand softly crept into that of Gregory Hall. The movement was not generally noticeable, but it seemed to me pathetic above all things. Whatever her position in the matter, she was surely appealing to him for help and protection.

Without directly repulsing her, Hall was far from responsive. He allowed her hand to rest in his own but gave her no answering pressure, and looked distinctly relieved when, after a moment, she withdrew it.

I saw that Parmalee also had observed this, and I could see that to him it was an indication of the girl's perturbed spirit. To me it seemed that it might equally well mean many other things. For instance it might mean her apprehension for Gregory Hall, who, I couldn't help thinking was far more likely to be a wrongdoer than the girl herself.

With a little sigh I gave up trying to glean much information from the present opportunity, and contented myself with the melancholy pleasure it gave me simply to look at the sad sweet face of the girl who was already enshrined in my heart.

After the solemn and rather elaborate obsequies were over, a little assembly gathered in the library to hear the reading of the will.

As, until then, no one had known of the disappearance of the will, except the lawyer and the secretary, it came as a thunderbolt.

“I have no explanation to offer,” said Mr. Randolph, looking greatly concerned, but free of all personal responsibility. “Mr. Crawford always kept the will in his own possession. When he came to see me, the last evening he was alive, in regard to making a new will, he did not bring the old one with him. We arranged to meet in his office the next morning to draw up the new instrument, when he doubtless expected to destroy the old one.

“He may have destroyed it on his return home that evening. I do not know. But so far it has not been found among his papers in either of his offices or in the bank. Of course it may appear, as the search, though thorough, has not yet been exhaustive. We will, therefore, hold the matter in abeyance a few days, hoping to find the missing document.”

His hearers were variously affected by this news. Florence Lloyd was simply dazed. She could not seem to grasp a situation which so suddenly changed her prospects. For she well knew that in the event of no will being found, Joseph Crawford's brother would be his rightful heir, and she would be legally entitled to nothing at all.

Philip Crawford sat with an utterly expressionless face. Quite able to control his emotion, if he felt any, he made no sign that he welcomed this possibility of a great fortune unexpectedly coming to him.

Lemuel Porter, who, with his wife, had remained because of their close friendship with the family, spoke out rather abruptly,

“Find it! Of course it must be found! It's absurd to think the man destroyed one will before the other was drawn.”

“I agree with you,” said Philip Crawford.

“Joseph was very methodical in his habits, and, besides, I doubt if he would really have changed his will. I think he merely threatened it, to see if Florence persisted in keeping her engagement.”

This was a generous speech on the part of Philip Crawford. To be sure, generosity of speech couldn't affect the disposal of the estate. If no will were found, it must by law go to the brother, but none the less the hearty, whole-souled way in which he spoke of Miss Lloyd was greatly to his credit as a man.

“I think so, too,” agreed Mr. Porter. “As you know, I called on Mr. Joseph Crawford during the—the last evening of his life.”

The speaker paused, and indeed it must have been a sad remembrance that pictured itself to his mind.

“Did he then refer to the matter of the will?” asked Mr. Randolph, in gentle tones.

“He did. Little was said on the subject, but he told me that unless Florence consented to his wishes in the matter of her engagement to Mr. Hall, he would make a new will, leaving her only a small bequest.”

“In what manner did you respond, Mr. Porter?”

“I didn't presume to advise him definitely, but I urged him not to be too hard on the girl, and, at any rate, not to make a new will until he had thought it over more deliberately.”

“What did he then say?”

“Nothing of any definite import. He began talking of other matters, and the will was not again referred to. But I can't help thinking he had not destroyed it.”

At this, Miss Lloyd seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Gregory Hall, she gave a little sigh, and remained silent.

“You know of nothing that can throw any light on the matter of the will, Mr. Hall?” asked Mr. Randolph.

“No, sir. Of course this whole situation is very embarrassing for me. I can only say that I have known for a long time the terms of Mr. Crawford's existing will; I have known of his threats of changing it; I have known of his attitude toward my engagement to his niece. But I never spoke to him on any of these subjects, nor he to me, though several times I have thought he was on the point of doing so. I have had access to most of his private papers, but of two or three small boxes he always retained the keys. I had no curiosity concerning the contents of these boxes, but I naturally assumed his will was in one of them. I have, however, opened these boxes since Mr. Crawford's death, in company with Mr. Randolph, and we found no will. Nor could we discover any in the New York office or in the bank. That is all I know of the matter.”

Gregory Hall's demeanor was dignified and calm, his voice even and, indeed, cold. He was like a bystander, with no vital interest in the subject he talked about.

Knowing, as I did, that his interest was vital, I came to the conclusion that he was a man of unusual self-control, and an ability to mask his real feelings completely. Feeling that nothing more could be learned at present, I left the group in the library discussing the loss of the will, and went down to the district attorney's office.

He was, of course, surprised at my news, and agreed with me that it gave us new fields for conjecture.

“Now, we see,” he said eagerly, “that the motive for the murder was the theft of the will.”

“Not necessarily,” I replied. “Mr. Crawford may have destroyed the will before he met his death.”

“But that would leave no motive. No, the will supplies the motive. Now, you see, this frees Miss Lloyd from suspicion. She would have no reason to kill her uncle and then destroy or suppress a will in her own favor.”

“That reasoning also frees Mr. Hall from suspicion,” said I, reverting to my former theories.

“Yes, it does. We must look for the one who has benefited by the removal of the will. That, of course, would be the brother, Mr. Philip Crawford.”

I looked at the attorney a moment, and then burst into laughter.

“My dear Mr. Goodrich,” I said, “don't be absurd! A man would hardly shoot his own brother, but aside from that, why should Philip Crawford kill Joseph just at the moment he is about to make a new will in Philip's favor? Either the destruction of the old will or the drawing of the new would result in Philip's falling heir to the fortune. So he would hardly precipitate matters by a criminal act. And, too, if he had been keen about the money, he could have urged his brother to disinherit Florence Lloyd, and Joseph would have willingly done so. He was on the very point of doing so, any way.”

“That's true,” said Mr. Goodrich, looking chagrined but unconvinced. “However, it frees Miss Lloyd from all doubts, by removing her motive. As you say, she wouldn't suppress a will in her favor, and thereby turn the fortune over to Philip. And, as you also said, this lets Gregory Hall out, too, though I never suspected him for a moment. But, of course, his interests and Miss Lloyd's are identical.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, for new thoughts were rapidly following one another through my brain. “Not so fast, Mr. District Attorney. The disappearance of the will does not remove motive from the possibility of Miss Lloyd's complicity in this crime—or Mr. Hall's either.”

“How so?”

“Because, if Florence Lloyd thought her uncle was in possession of that will, her motive was identically the same as if he had possessed it. Now, she certainly thought he had it, for her surprise at the news of its loss was as unfeigned as my own. And of course Hall thought the will was among Mr. Crawford's effects, for he has been searching constantly since the question was raised.”

“But I thought that yesterday you were so sure of Miss Lloyd's innocence,” objected Mr. Goodrich.

“I was,” I said slowly, “and I think I am still. But in the light of absolute evidence I am only declaring that the non-appearance of that will in no way interferes with the motive Miss Lloyd must have had if she is in any way guilty. She knew, or thought she knew, that the will was there, in her favor. She knew her uncle intended to revoke it and make another in her disfavor. I do not accuse her—I'm not sure I suspect her—I only say she had motive and opportunity.”

As I walked away from Mr. Goodrich's office, those words rang in my mind, motive and opportunity. Truly they applied to Mr. Hall as well as to Miss Lloyd, although of course it would mean Hall's coming out from the city and returning during the night. And though this might have been a difficult thing to do secretly, it was by no means impossible. He might not have come all the way to West Sedgwick Station, but might have dropped off the train earlier and taken the trolley. The trolley! that thought reminded me of the transfer I had picked up on the grass plot near the office veranda. Was it possible that slip of paper was a clue, and pointing toward Hall?

Without definite hope of seeing Gregory Hall, but hopeful of learning something about him, I strolled back to the Crawford house. I went directly to the office, and by good luck found Gregory Hall there alone. He was still searching among the papers of Mr. Crawford's desk.

“Ah, Mr. Burroughs,” he said, as I entered, “I'm glad to see you. If detectives detect, you have a fine chance here to do a bit of good work. I wouldn't mind offering you an honorarium myself, if you could unearth the will that has so mysteriously disappeared.”

Hall's whole manner had changed. He had laid aside entirely the grave demeanor which he had shown at the funeral, and was again the alert business man. He was more than this. He was eager,—offensively so,—in his search for the will. It needed no detective instinct to see that the fortune of Joseph Crawford and its bestowment were matters of vital interest to him.

But though his personal feelings on the subject might be distasteful to me, it was certainly part of my duty to aid in the search, and so with him I looked through the various drawers and filing cabinets. The papers representing or connected with the financial interests of the late millionaire were neatly filed and labelled; but in some parts of the desk we found the hodge-podge of personal odds and ends which accumulates with nearly everybody.

Hall seemed little interested in those, but to my mind they showed a possibility of casting some light on Mr. Crawford's personal affairs.

But among old letters, photographs, programs, newspaper clippings, and such things, there was nothing that seemed of the slightest interest, until at last I chanced upon a photograph that arrested my attention.

“Do you know who this is?” I inquired.

“No,” returned Hall, with a careless glance at it; “a friend of Mr. Crawford's, I suppose.”

“More than a friend, I should judge,” and I turned the back of the picture toward him. Across it was written, “with loving Christmas greetings, from M.S.P.”; and it was dated as recently as the Christmas previous.

“Well,” said Hall, “Mr. Crawford may have had a lady friend who cared enough about him to send an affectionate greeting, but I never heard of her before, and I doubt if she is in any way responsible for the disappearance of this will.”

He went on searching through the desks, giving no serious heed to the photograph. But to me it seemed important. I alone knew of the visiting card in the gold bag. I alone knew that that bag belonged to a lady named Purvis. And here was a photograph initialed by a lady whose surname began with P, and who was unmistakably on affectionate terms with Mr. Crawford. To my mind the links began to form a chain; the lady who had sent her photograph at Christmas, and who had left her gold bag in Mr. Crawford's office the night he was killed, surely was a lady to be questioned.

But I had not yet had a reply to my telegram to headquarters, so I said nothing to Hall on this subject, and putting the photograph in my pocket continued to assist him to look for the will, but without success. However, the discovery of the photograph had in a measure diverted my suspicions from Gregory Hall; and though I endeavored to draw him into general conversation, I did not ask him any definite questions about himself.

But the more I talked with him, the more I disliked him: He not only showed a mercenary, fortune-hunting spirit, but he showed himself in many ways devoid of the finer feelings and chivalrous nature that ought to belong to the man about to marry such a perfect flower of womanhood as Florence Lloyd.