“I know it seems so,” I replied, “but I have my reasons. One is, that Fleming Stone makes important deductions from seemingly unimportant clues; and he holds that unless these clues are followed immediately, they are lost sight of and great opportunities are gone.”
“H'm,” mused Philip Crawford, stroking his strong, square chin. “I don't care much for these spectacular detectives. Your man, I suppose, would glance at the gold bag, and at once announce the age, sex, and previous condition of servitude of its owner.”
“Just what I have thought, Mr. Crawford. I'm sure he could do just that.”
“And that's all the good it would do! That bag doesn't belong to the criminal.”
“How do you know?”
“By common-sense. No woman came to the house in the dead of night and shot my brother, and then departed, taking her revolver with her. And again, granting a woman did have nerve and strength enough to do that, such a woman is not going off leaving her gold bag behind her as evidence!”
This speech didn't affect me much. It was pure conjecture. Women are uncertain creatures, at best; and a woman capable of murder would be equally capable of losing her head afterward, and leaving circumstantial evidence behind her.
I was sorry Mr. Crawford didn't seem to take to the notion of sending for Stone. I wasn't weakening in the case so far as my confidence in my own ability was concerned; but I could see no direction to look except toward Florence Lloyd or Gregory Hall, or both. And so I was ready to give up.
“What do you think of Gregory Hall?” I said suddenly.
“As a man or as a suspect?” inquired Mr. Crawford.