“But Joseph had already destroyed the will that favored Florence.”
“We don't know that,” I responded gravely. “And, anyway, if he had done so, Mr. Hall didn't know it. This leaves his motive unchanged.”
“But the gold bag,” said Mr. Crawford, apparently to get away—from the subject of Gregory Hall.
“If, as you say,” I began, “that is Florence's bag—”
I couldn't go on. A strange sense of duty had forced those words from me, but I could say no more.
Fleming Stone might take the case if they wanted him to; or they might get some one else. But I could not go on, when the only clues discoverable pointed in a way I dared not look.
Philip Crawford was ghastly now. His face was working and he breathed quickly.
“Nonsense, Dad!” cried a strong, young voice, and his son, Philip, Jr., bounded into the room and grasped his father's hands. “I overheard a few of your last words, and you two are on the wrong track. Florrie's no more mixed up in that horrible business than I am. Neither is Hall. He's a fool chap, but no villain. I heard what you said about the late newspaper, but lots of people come out on that midnight train. You may as well suspect some peaceable citizen coming home from the theatre, as to pick out poor Hall, without a scrap of evidence to point to him.”
I was relieved beyond all words at the hearty assurance of the boy, and I plucked up new courage. Apprehension had made me faint-hearted, but if he could show such flawless confidence in Florence and her betrothed, surely I could do as much.
“Good for you, young man!” I cried, shaking his hand. “You've cheered me up a lot. I'll take a fresh start, and surely we'll find out something. But I'd like to send for Stone.”