The news of Gregory Hall's arrest flew through the town like wildfire.

That evening I went to call on Florence Lloyd, though I had little hope that she would see me.

To my surprise, however, she welcomed me almost eagerly, and, though I knew she wanted to see me only for what legal help I might give her, I was glad even of this.

And yet her manner was far from impersonal. Indeed, she showed a slight embarrassment in my presence, which, if I had dared, I should have been glad to think meant a growing interest in our friendship.

“You have heard all?” I asked, knowing from her manner that she had.

“Yes,” she replied; “Mr. Hall was here for dinner, and then—then he went away to—”

“To prison,” I finished quietly. “Florence, I cannot think he is the murderer of your uncle.”

If she noticed this, my first use of her Christian name, she offered no remonstrance, and I went on,

“To be sure, they have proved that he had motive, means, opportunity, and all that, but it is only indefinite evidence. If he would but tell where he was on Tuesday night, he could so easily free himself. Why will he not tell?”

“I don't know,” she said, looking thoughtful. “But I cannot think he was here, either. When he said good-by to me to-night, he did not seem at all apprehensive. He only said he was arrested wrongfully, and that he would soon be set free again. You know his way of taking everything casually.”

“Yes, I do. And now that you are your uncle's heiress, I suppose he no longer wishes to break the engagement between you and him.”

I said this bitterly, for I loathed the nature that could thus turn about in accordance with the wheel of fortune.

To my surprise, she too spoke bitterly.

“Yes,” she said; “he insists now that we are engaged, and that he never really wanted to break it. He has shown me positively that it is my money that attracts him, and if it were not that I don't want to seem to desert him now, when he is in trouble—”

She paused, and my heart beat rapidly. Could it be that at last she saw Gregory Hall as he really was, and that his mercenary spirit had killed her love for him? At least, she had intimated this, and, forcing myself to be content with that for the present, I said:

“Would you, then, if you could, get him out of this trouble?”

“Gladly. I do not think he killed Uncle Joseph, but I'm sure I do not know who did. Do you?”

“I haven't the least idea,” I answered honestly, for there, in Florence Lloyd's presence, gazing into the depths of her clear eyes, my last, faint suspicion of her wrong-doing faded away. “And it is this total lack of suspicion that makes the case so simple, and therefore so difficult. A more complicated case offers some points on which to build a theory. I do not blame Mr. Goodrich for suspecting Mr. Hall, for there seems to be no one else to suspect.”

Just then Mr. Lemuel Porter dropped in for an evening call. Of course, we talked over the events of the day, and Mr. Porter was almost vehement in his denunciation of the sudden move of the district attorney.

“It's absurd,” he said, “utterly absurd. Gregory Hall never did the thing. I've known Hall for years, and he isn't that sort of a man. I believe Philip Crawford's story, of course, but the murderer, who came into the office after Florence's visit to her uncle, and before Philip arrived, was some stranger from out of town—some man whom none of us know; who had some grievance against Joseph, and who deliberately came and went during that midnight hour.”

I agreed with Mr. Porter. I had thought all along it was some one unknown to the Sedgwick people, but some one well known to Joseph Crawford. For, had it been an ordinary burglar, the victim would at least have raised a protecting hand.

“Of course Hall will be set free at once,” continued Mr. Porter, “but to arrest him was a foolish thing to do.”

“Still, he ought to prove his alibi,” I said.

“Very well, then; make him prove it. Give him the third degree, if necessary, and find out where he was on Tuesday night.”

“I doubt if they could get it out of him,” I observed, “if he continues determined not to tell.”

“Then he deserves his fate,” said Mr. Porter, a little petulantly. “He can free himself by a word. If he refuses to do so it's his own business.”

“But I'd like to help him,” said Florence, almost timidly. “Is there no way I can do so, Mr. Burroughs?”

“Indeed there is,” I said. “You are a rich woman now; use some of your wealth to employ the services of Fleming Stone, and I can assure you the truth will be discovered.”

“Indeed I will,” said Florence. “Please send for him at once.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Porter. “It isn't necessary at all. Mr. Burroughs here, and young Parmalee, are all the detectives we need. Get Hall to free himself, as he can easily do, and then set to work in earnest to run down the real villain.”

“No, Mr. Porter,” said Florence, with firmness; “Gregory will not tell his secret, whatever it is. I know his stubborn nature. He'll stay in prison until he's freed, as he is sure he will be, but he won't tell what he has determined not to divulge. No, I am glad I can do something definite at last toward avenging Uncle Joseph's death. Please send for Mr. Stone, Mr. Burroughs, and I will gladly pay his fees and expenses.” Mr. Porter expostulated further, but to no avail. Florence insisted on sending for the great detective.

So I sent for him.

He came two days later, and in the interval nothing further had been learned from Gregory Hall. The man was an enigma to me. He was calm and impassive as ever. Courteous, though never cordial, and apparently without the least apprehension of ever being convicted for the crime which had caused his arrest.

Indeed, he acted just as an innocent man would act; innocent of the murder, that is, but resolved to conceal his whereabouts of Tuesday night, whatever that resolve might imply.

To me, it did not imply crime. Something he wished to conceal, certainly; but I could not think a criminal would act so. A criminal is usually ready with an alibi, whether it can be proved or not.

When Fleming Stone arrived I met him at the station and took him at once to the inn, where I had engaged rooms for him.

We first had a long conversation alone, in which I told him, everything I knew concerning the murder.

“When did it happen?” he asked, for, though he had read some of the newspaper accounts, the date had escaped him.

I told him, and added, “Why, I was called here just after I left you at the Metropolis Hotel that morning. Don't you remember, you deduced a lot of information from a pair of shoes which were waiting to be cleaned?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Stone, smiling a little at the recollection.

“And I tried to make similar deductions from the gold bag and the newspaper, but I couldn't do it. I bungled matters every time. My deductions are mostly from the witnesses' looks or tones when giving evidence.”

“On the stand?”

“Not necessarily on the stand. I've learned much from talking to the principals informally.”

“And where do your suspicions point?”

“Nowhere. I've suspected Florence Lloyd and Gregory Hall, in turn, and in collusion; but now I suspect neither of them.”

“Why not Hall?”

“His manner is too frank and unconcerned.”

“A good bluff for a criminal to use.”

“Then he won't tell where he was that night.”

“If he is the murderer, he can't tell. A false alibi is so easily riddled. It's rather clever to keep doggedly silent; but what does he say is his reason?”

“He won't give any reason. He has determined to keep up that calm, indifferent pose, and though it is aggravating, I must admit it serves his purpose well.”

“How did they find him the morning after the murder?”

“Let me see; I believe the coroner said he telephoned first to Hall's club. But the steward said Hall didn't stay there, as there was no vacant room, and that he had stayed all night at a hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“I don't know. The coroner asked the steward, but he didn't know.”

“Didn't he find out from Hall, afterward?”

“I don't know, Stone; perhaps the coroner asked him, but if he did, I doubt if Hall told. It didn't seem to me important.”

“Burroughs, my son, you should have learned every detail of Hall's doings that night.”

“But if he were not in West Sedgwick, what difference could it possibly make where he was?”

“One never knows what difference anything will make until the difference is made. That's oracular, but it means more than it sounds. However, go on.”

I went on, and I even told him what Florence had told me concerning the possibility of Hall's interest in another woman.

“At last we are getting to it,” said Stone; “why in the name of all good detectives, didn't you hunt up that other woman?”

“But she is perhaps only a figment of Miss Lloyd's brain.”

“Figments of the brains of engaged young ladies are apt to have a solid foundation of flesh and blood. I think much could be learned concerning Mr. Hall's straying fancy. But tell me again about his attitude toward Miss Lloyd, in the successive developments of the will question.”

Fleming Stone was deeply interested as I rehearsed how, when Florence was supposed to be penniless, he wished to break the engagement. When Philip Crawford offered to provide for her, Mr. Hall was uncertain; but when the will was found, and Florence was known to inherit all her uncle's property, then Gregory Hall not only held her to the engagement, but said he had never wished to break it.

“H'm,” said Stone. “Pretty clear that the young man is a fortune-hunter.”

“He is,” I agreed. “I felt sure of that from the first.”

“And he is now under arrest, calmly waiting for some one to prove his innocence, so he can marry the heiress.”

“That's about the size of it,” I said. “But I don't think Florence is quite as much in love with him as she was. She seems to have realized his mercenary spirit.”

Perhaps an undue interest in my voice or manner disclosed to this astute man the state of my own affections, for he gave me a quizzical glance, and said, “O-ho! sits the wind in that quarter?”

“Yes,” I said, determined to be frank with him. “It does. I want you, to free Gregory Hall, if he's innocent. Then if, for any reason, Miss Lloyd sees fit to dismiss him, I shall most certainly try to win her affections. As I came to this determination when she was supposed to be penniless, I can scarcely be accused of fortune-hunting myself.”

“Indeed, you can't, old chap. You're not that sort. Well, let's go to see your district attorney and his precious prisoner, and see what's to be done.”

We went to the district attorney's office, and, later, accompanied by him and by Mr. Randolph, we visited Gregory Hall.

As I had expected, Mr. Hall wore the same unperturbed manner he always showed, and when Fleming Stone was introduced, Hall greeted him coldly, with absolutely no show of interest in the man or his work.

Fleming Stone's own kindly face took on a slight expression of hauteur, as he noticed his reception, but he said, pleasantly enough,

“I am here in an effort to aid in establishing your innocence, Mr. Hall.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Hall listlessly.

I wondered whether this asking to have a remark repeated was merely a foolish habit of Hall's, or whether, as I had heretofore guessed, it was a ruse to gain time.

Fleming Stone looked at him a little more sharply as he repeated his remark in clear, even tones.

“Thank you,” said Hall, pleasantly enough. “I shall be glad to be free from this unjust suspicion.”

“And as a bit of friendly advice,” went on Stone, “I strongly urge that you, reveal to us, confidentially, where you were on Tuesday night.”

Hall looked the speaker straight in the eye.

“That,” he said, “I must still refuse to do.”

Fleming Stone rose and walked toward the window.

“I think,” he said, “the proof of your innocence may depend upon this point.”

Gregory Hall turned his head, and followed Stone with his eyes.

“What did you say, Mr. Stone?” he asked quietly.

The detective returned to his seat.

“I said,” he replied, “that the proof of your innocence might depend on your telling this secret of yours. But I begin to think now you will be freed from suspicion whether you tell it or not.”

Instead of looking glad at this assurance, Gregory Hall gave a start, and an expression of fear came into his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he said,

“Have you any letters in your pocket, Mr. Hall?” went on Fleming Stone in a suave voice.

“Yes; several. Why?”

“I do not ask to read them. Merely show me the lot.”

With what seemed to be an unwilling but enforced movement, Mr. Hall drew four or five letters from his breast pocket and handed them to Fleming Stone.

“They've all been looked over, Mr. Stone,” said the district attorney; “and they have no bearing on the matter of the crime.”

“Oh, I don't want to read them,” said the detective.

He ran over the lot carelessly, not taking the sheets from the envelopes, and returned them to their owner.

Gregory Hall looked at him as if fascinated. What revelation was this man about to make?

“Mr. Hall,” Fleming Stone began, “I've no intention of forcing your secret from you. But I shall ask you some questions, and you may do as you like about answering them. First, you refuse to tell where you were during the night last Tuesday. I take it, you mean you refuse to tell how or where you spent the evening. Now, will you tell us where you lodged that night?”

“I fail to see any reason for telling you,” answered Hall, after a moment's thought. “I have said I was in New York City, that is enough.”

“The reason you may as well tell us,” went on Mr. Stone, “is because it is a very simple matter for us to find out. You doubtless were at some hotel, and you went there because you could not get a room at your club. In fact, this was stated when the coroner telephoned for you, the morning after the murder. I mean, it was stated that the club bed-rooms were all occupied. I assume, therefore, that you lodged at some hotel, and, as a canvass of the city hotels would be a simple matter, you may as well save us that trouble.”

“Oh, very well,” said Gregory Hall sullenly; “then I did spend the night at a hotel. It was the Metropolis Hotel, and you will find my name duly on the register.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Stone pleasantly. “Now that you have told us this, have you any objection to telling us at what time you returned to the hotel, after your evening's occupation, whatever it may have been?”

“Eh?” said Hall abstractedly. He turned his head as he spoke, and Fleming Stone threw me a quizzical smile which I didn't in the least understand.

“You may as well tell us,” said Stone, after he had repeated his question, “for if you withhold it, the night clerk can give us this information.”

“Well,” said Hall, who now looked distinctly sulky, “I don't remember exactly, but I think I turned in somewhere between twelve and one o'clock.”

“And as it was a late hour, you slept rather late next morning,” suggested Stone.

“Oh, I don't know. I was at Mr. Crawford's New York office by half-past ten.”

“A strange coincidence, Burroughs,” said Fleming Stone, turning to me.

“Eh? Beg pardon?” said Hall, turning his head also.

“Mr. Hall,” said Stone, suddenly facing him again, “are you deaf? Why do you ask to have remarks repeated?”

Hall looked slightly apologetic. “I am a little deaf,” he said; “but only in one ear. And only at times—or, rather, it's worse at times. If I have a cold, for instance.”

“Or in damp weather?” said Stone. “Mr. Hall, I have questioned you enough. I will now tell these gentlemen, since you refuse to do so, where you were on the night of Mr. Crawford's murder. You were not in West Sedgwick, or near it. You are absolutely innocent of the crime or any part in it.”

Gregory Hall straightened up perceptibly, like a man exonerated from all blame. But he quailed again, as Fleming Stone, looking straight at him, continued: “You left West Sedgwick at six that evening, as you have said. You registered at the Metropolis Hotel, after learning that you could not get a room at your club. And then—you went over to Brooklyn to meet, or to call on, a young woman living in that borough. You took her back to New York to the theatre or some such entertainment, and afterward escorted her back to her home. The young woman wore a street costume, by which I mean a cloth gown without a train. You did not have a cab, but, after leaving the car, you walked for a rather long distance in Brooklyn. It was raining, and you were both under one umbrella. Am I correct, so far?”

At last Gregory Hall's calm was disturbed. He looked at Fleming Stone as at a supernatural being. And small wonder. For the truth of Stone's statements was evident from Hall's amazement at them.

“You—you saw us!” he gasped.

“No, I didn't see you; it is merely a matter of observation, deduction, and memory. You recollect the muddy shoes?” he added, turning to me.

Did I recollect! Well, rather! And it certainly was a coincidence that we had chanced to examine those shoes that morning at the hotel.

As for Mr. Randolph and the district attorney, they were quite as much surprised as Hall.

“Can you prove this astonishing story, Mr. Stone?” asked Mr. Goodrich, with an incredulous look.

“Oh, yes, in lots of ways,” returned Stone. “For one thing, Mr. Hall has in his pocket now a letter from the young lady. The whole matter is of no great importance except as it proves Mr. Hall was not in West Sedgwick that night, and so is not the murderer.”

“But why conceal so simple a matter? Why refuse to tell of the episode?” asked Mr. Randolph.

“Because,” and now Fleming Stone looked at Hall with accusation in his glance—“because Mr. Hall is very anxious that his fiancee shall not know of his attentions to the young lady in Brooklyn.”

“O-ho!” said Mr. Goodrich, with sudden enlightenment. “I see it all now. Is it the truth, Mr. Hall? Did you go to Brooklyn and back that night, as Mr. Stone has described?”

Gregory Hall fidgeted in an embarrassed way. But, unable to escape the piercing gaze of Stone's eyes, he admitted grudgingly that the detective had told the truth, adding, “But it's wizardry, that's what it is! How could he know?”

“I had reason for suspicion,” said Stone; “and when I found you were deaf in your right ear, and that you had in your pocket a letter addressed in a feminine hand, and postmarked `Brooklyn,' I was sure.”

“It's all true,” said Hall slowly. “You have the facts all right. But, unless you have had me shadowed, will you tell me how you knew it all?”

And then Fleming Stone told of his observations and deductions when we noticed the muddied shoes at the Metropolis Hotel that morning.

“But,” he said, as he concluded, “when I hastily adjudged the young lady to be deaf in the left ear, I see now I was mistaken. As soon as I realized Mr. Hall himself is deaf in the right ear, especially so in damp or wet weather, I saw that it fitted the case as well as if the lady had been deaf in her left ear. Then a note in his pocket from a lady in Brooklyn made me quite sure I was right.”

“But, Mr. Stone,” said Lawyer Randolph, “it is very astonishing that you should make those deductions from those shoes, and then come out here and meet the owner of the shoes.”

“It seems more remarkable than it really is, Mr. Randolph,” was the response; “for I am continually observing whatever comes to my notice. Hundreds of my deductions are never verified, or even thought of again; so it is not so strange that now and then one should prove of use in my work.”

“Well,” said the district attorney, “it seems wonderful to me. But now that Mr. Hall has proved his alibi, or, rather, Mr. Stone has proved it for him, we must begin anew our search for the real criminal.”

“One moment,” said Gregory Hall. “As you know, gentlemen, I endeavored to keep this little matter of my going to Brooklyn a secret. As it has no possible bearing on the case of Mr. Crawford, may I ask of you to respect my desire that you say nothing about it?”

“For my part,” said the district attorney, “I am quite willing to grant Mr. Hall's request. I have put him to unnecessary trouble and embarrassment by having him arrested, and I shall be glad to do him this favor that he asks, by way of amends.”

But Mr. Randolph seemed reluctant to make the required promise, and Fleming Stone looked at Hall, and said nothing.

Then I spoke out, and, perhaps with scant courtesy, I said:

“I, for one, refuse to keep this revelation a secret. It was discovered by the detective engaged by Miss Lloyd. Therefore, I think Miss Lloyd is entitled to the knowledge we have thus gained.”

Mr. Randolph looked at me with approval. He was a good friend of Florence Lloyd, and he was of no mind to hide from her something which it might be better for her to know.

Gregory Hall set his lips together in a way which argued no pleasant feelings toward me, but he said nothing then. He was forthwith released from custody, and the rest of us separated; having arranged to meet that evening at Miss Lloyd's home to discuss matters.