The Gold Bag

“At what time did you go out?”

“At half after the eight, sir.”

“And what time did you return?”

“I return about eleven.”

“And did you then see a light in Mr. Crawford’s office?”

Louis hesitated a moment. It could easily be seen that he was pausing only to enable himself to speak naturally and clearly, but it was only after one of those darting glances at Miss Lloyd that he replied:

“I could not see Mr. Crawford’s office, because I go around the other side of the house. I make my entree by the back door; I go straight to my room, and I know nothing of my master until I go to his room this morning and find him not there.”

“Then you didn’t go to his room last night on your return?”

“As I pass his door, I see it open, and his light low, so I know he is still below stair.”

“And you did not pass by the library on your way round the house?”

Louis’s face turned a shade whiter than usual, but he said distinctly, though in a low voice, “No, sir.”

An involuntary gasp as of amazement was heard, and though I looked quickly at Miss Lloyd, it was not she who had made the sound. It was one of the maidservants, a pretty German girl, who sat behind Miss Lloyd. No one else seemed to notice it, and I realized it was not surprising that the strain of the occasion should thus disturb the girl.

“You heard Louis come in, Lambert?” asked Mr. Monroe, who was conducting the whole inquiry in a conversational way, rather than as a formal inquest.

“Yes, sir; he came in about eleven, and went directly to his room.”

The butler stood with folded hands, a sad expression in his eyes, but with an air of importance that seemed to be inseparable from him, in any circumstances.

Doctor Fairchild was called as the next witness.

He testified that he had been summoned that morning at about quarter before eight o’clock. He had gone immediately to Mr. Crawford’s house, was admitted by the butler, and taken at once to the office. He found Mr. Crawford dead in his chair, shot through the left temple with a thirty-two calibre revolver.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Lemuel Porter, who, with the other jurors, was listening attentively to all the testimony. “If the weapon was not found, how do you know its calibre?”

“I extracted the bullet from the wound,” returned Doctor Fairchild, “and those who know have pronounced it to be a ball fired from a small pistol of thirty-two calibre.”

“But if Mr. Crawford had committed suicide, the pistol would have been there,” said Mr. Porter; who seemed to be a more acute thinker than the other jurymen.

“Exactly,” agreed the coroner. “That’s why we must conclude that Mr. Crawford did not take his own life.”

“Nor would he have done so,” declared Doctor Fairchild. “I have known the deceased for many years. He had no reason for wishing to end his life, and, I am sure, no inclination to do so. He was shot by an alien hand, and the deed was probably committed at or near midnight.”

“Thus we assume,” the coroner went on, as the doctor finished his simple statement and resumed his seat, “that Mr. Crawford remained in his office, occupied with his business matters, until midnight or later, when some person or persons came into his room, murdered him, and went away again, without making sufficient noise or disturbance to arouse the sleeping household.”

“Perhaps Mr. Crawford himself had fallen asleep in his chair,” suggested one of the jurors,—the Mr. Orville, who was continually taking notes in his little book.

“It is possible,” said the doctor, as the remark was practically addressed to him, “but not probable. The attitude in which the body was found indicates that the victim was awake, and in full possession of his faculties. Apparently he made no resistance of any sort.”

“Which seems to show,” said the coroner, “that his assailant was not a burglar or tramp, for in that case he would surely have risen and tried to put him out. The fact that Mr. Crawford was evidently shot by a person standing in front of him, seems to imply that that person’s attitude was friendly, and that the victim had no suspicion of the danger that threatened him.”

This was clear and logical reasoning, and I looked at the coroner in admiration, until I suddenly remembered Parmalee’s hateful suspicion and wondered if Coroner Monroe was preparing for an attack upon Miss Lloyd.

Gregory Hall was summoned next.

He was self-possessed and even cool in his demeanor. There was a frank manner about him that pleased me, but there was also a something which repelled me.

I couldn’t quite explain it to myself, but while he had an air of extreme straightforwardness, there was also an indefinable effect of reserve. I couldn’t help feeling that if this man had anything to conceal, he would be quite capable of doing so under a mask of great outspokenness.

But, as it turned out, he had nothing either to conceal or reveal, for he had been away from West Sedgwick since six o’clock the night before, and knew nothing of the tragedy until he heard of it by telephone at Mr. Crawford’s New York office that morning about half-past ten. This made him of no importance as a witness, but Mr. Monroe asked him a few questions.

“You left here last evening, you say?”

“On the six o’clock train to New York, yes.”

“For what purpose?”

“On business for Mr. Crawford.”

“Did that business occupy you last evening?”

Mr. Hall looked surprised at this question, but answered quietly

“No; I was to attend to the business to-day. But I often go to New York for several days at a time.”

“And where were you last evening?” pursued the coroner.

This time Mr. Hall looked more surprised still, and said

“As it has no bearing on the matter in hand, I prefer not to answer that rather personal question.”

Mr. Monroe looked surprised in his turn, and said: “I think I must insist upon an answer, Mr. Hall, for it is quite necessary that we learn the whereabouts of every member of this household last evening.”

“I cannot agree with you, sir,” said Gregory Hall, coolly; “my engagements for last evening were entirely personal matters, in no way connected with Mr. Crawford’s business. As I was not in West Sedgwick at the time my late employer met his death, I cannot see that my private affairs need be called into question.”

“Quite so, quite so,” put in Mr. Orville; but Lemuel Porter interrupted him.

“Not at all so. I agree with Mr. Monroe, that Mr. Hall should frankly tell us where he spent last evening.”

“And I refuse to do so,” said Mr. Hall, speaking not angrily, but with great decision.

“Your refusal may tend to direct suspicion toward yourself, Mr. Hall,” said the coroner.

Gregory Hall smiled slightly. “As I was out of town, your suggestion sounds a little absurd. However, I take that risk, and absolutely refuse to answer any questions save those which relate to the matter in hand.”

Coroner Monroe looked rather helplessly at his jurors, but as none of them said anything further, he turned again to Gregory Hall.

“The telephone message you received this morning, then, was the first knowledge you had of Mr. Crawford’s death?”