“How do I know?” he cried, almost angrily. “I tell you, I have no suspicions. I wish I had! I desire, above all things, to bring my brother's murderer to justice. But I don't know where to look. If the weapon were not missing, I should think it a suicide.”
“The doctor declares it could not have been suicide, even if the weapon had been found near him. This they learned from the position of his arms and head.”
“Yes, yes; I know it. It was, without doubt, murder. But who—who would have a motive?”
“They say,” I observed, “motives for murder are usually love, revenge, or money.”
“There is no question of love or revenge in this instance. And as for money, as I am the one who has profited financially, suspicion should rest on me.”
“Absurd!” I said.
“Yes, it is absurd,” he went on, “for had I desired Joseph's fortune, I need not have killed him to acquire it. He told me the day before he died that he intended to disinherit Florence, and make me his heir, unless she broke with that secretary of his. I tried to dissuade him from this step, for we are not a mercenary lot, we Crawfords, and I thought I had made him reconsider his decision. Now, as it turns out, he persisted in his resolve, and was only prevented from carrying it out by this midnight assassin. We must find that villain, Mr. Burroughs! Do not consider expense; do anything you can to track him down.”
“Then, Mr. Crawford,” said I, “if you do not mind the outlay, I advise that we send for Fleming Stone. He is a detective of extraordinary powers, and I am quite willing to surrender the case to him.”
Philip Crawford eyed me keenly.
“You give up easily, young man,” he said banteringly.