Kitabı oku: «The Gold Bag», sayfa 2

This reminded me that as the detective in charge of this case, it was my privilege—indeed, my duty—to examine the papers and personal effects that were all about, in an effort to gather clues for future use.

I was ignorant of many important details, and turned to Parmelee for information.

That young man however, though voluble, was, inclined to talk on only one subject, the suspected criminal, Miss Florence Lloyd.

“You see, it must be her bag. Because who else could have left it here? Mrs. Pierce, the only other lady in the house, doesn’t carry a youngish bag like that. She’d have a black leather bag, more likely, or a— or a—”

“Well, it really doesn’t matter what kind of a bag Mrs. Pierce would carry,” said I, a little impatiently; “the thing is to prove whether this is Miss Lloyd’s bag or not. And as it is certainly not a matter of conjecture, but a matter of fact, I think we may leave it for the present, and turn our attention to other matters.”

I could see that Parmalee was disappointed that I had made no startling deductions from my study of the bag and its contents, and, partly owing to my own chagrin at this state of affairs, I pretended to consider the bag of little consequence, and turned hopefully to an investigation of the room.

The right-hand upper drawer of the double-pedestalled desk was open. Seemingly, Mr. Crawford had been engaged with its contents during the latter moments of his life.

At a glance, I saw the drawer contained exceedingly valuable and important papers.

With an air of authority, intentionally exaggerated for the purpose of impressing Parmalee, I closed the drawer, and locked it with the key already in the keyhole.

This key was one of several on a key-ring, and, taking it from its place, I dropped the whole bunch in my pocket. This action at once put me in my rightful place. The two men watching me unconsciously assumed a more deferential air, and, though they said nothing, I could see that their respect for my authority had increased.

Strangely enough, after this episode, a new confidence in my own powers took possession of me, and, shaking off the apathy that had come over me at sight of that dread figure in the chair, I set methodically to work to examine the room.

Of course I noted the position of the furniture, the state of the window-fastenings, and such things in a few moments. The many filing cabinets and indexed boxes, I glanced at, and locked those that had keys or fastenings.

The inspector sat with folded hands watching me with interest but saying nothing. Parmalee, on the other hand, kept up a running conversation, sometimes remarking lightly on my actions, and again returning to the subject of Miss Lloyd.

“I can see,” he said, “that you naturally dislike to suspect a woman, and a young woman too. But you don’t know Miss Lloyd. She is haughty and wilful. And as I told you, nobody has mentioned her yet in this connection. But I am speaking to you alone, and I have no reason to mince matters. And you know Florence Lloyd is not of the Crawford stock. The Crawfords are a fine old family, and not one of them could be capable of crime. But Miss Lloyd is on the other side of the house, a niece of Mrs. Crawford; and I’ve heard that the Lloyd stock is not all that could be desired. There is a great deal in heredity, and she may not be responsible…”

I paid little attention to Parmalee’s talk, which was thrown at me in jerky, desultory sentences, and interested me not at all. I went on with my work of investigation, and though I did not get down on my knees and examine every square inch of the carpet with a lens, yet I thoroughly examined all of the contents of the room. I regret to say, however, that I found nothing that seemed to be a clue to the murderer.

Stepping out on the veranda, I looked for footprints. The “light snow” usually so helpful to a detective had not fallen, as it was April, and rather warm for the season. But I found many heel marks, apparently of men’s boots; yet they were not necessarily of very recent date, and I don’t think much of foot-print clues, anyhow.

Then I examined the carpet, or, rather, the several rugs which ornamented the beautiful polished floor.

I found nothing but two petals of a pale yellow rose. They were crumpled, but not dry or withered, and could not have been long detached from the blossom on which they grew.

Parmalee chanced to have his back toward me as I spied them, and I picked them up and put them away in my pocket-book without his knowledge. If the stolid inspector saw me, he made no sign. Indeed, I think he would have said nothing if I had carried off the big desk itself. I looked round the room for a bouquet or vase of flowers from which the petals might have fallen, but none was there.

This far I had progressed when I heard steps in the hall, and a moment later the coroner ushered the six gentlemen of his jury into the room.

III. THE CORONER’S JURY

It was just as the men came in at the door, that I chanced to notice a newspaper that lay on a small table. I picked it up with an apparent air of carelessness, and, watching my chance, unobserved by Parmalee, I put the paper away in a drawer, which I locked.

The six men, whom Coroner Monroe named over to me, by way of a brief introduction, stepped silently as they filed past the body of their late friend and neighbor.

For the jurymen had been gathered hastily from among the citizens of West Sedgwick who chanced to be passing; and as it was after eleven o’clock, they were, for the most part, men of leisure, and occupants of the handsome homes in the vicinity.

Probably none of them had ever before been called to act on a coroner’s jury, and all seemed impressed with the awfulness of the crime, as well as imbued with a personal sense of sorrow.

Two of the jurors had been mentioned to me by name, by the coachman who brought me from the station. Horace Hamilton and Lemuel Porter were near-by neighbors of the murdered man, and; I judged from their remarks, were rather better acquainted with him than were the others.

Mr. Hamilton was of the short, stout, bald-headed type, sometimes called aldermanic. It was plainly to be seen that his was a jocund nature, and the awe which he felt in this dreadful presence of death, though clearly shown on his rubicund face, was evidently a rare emotion with him. He glanced round the room as if expecting to see everything there materially changed, and though he looked toward the figure of Mr. Crawford now and then, it was with difficulty, and he averted his eyes as quickly as possible. He was distinctly nervous, and though he listened to the remarks of Coroner Monroe and the other jurors, he seemed impatient to get away.

Mr. Porter, in appearance, was almost the exact reverse of Mr. Hamilton. He was a middle-aged man with the iron gray hair and piercing dark eyes that go to make up what is perhaps the handsomest type of Americans. He was a tall man, strong, lean and sinewy, with a bearing of dignity and decision. Both these men were well-dressed to the point of affluence, and, as near neighbor and intimate friends of the dead man, they seemed to prefer to stand together and a little apart from the rest.

Three more of the jurors seemed to me not especially noticeable in any way. They looked as one would expect property owners in West Sedgwick to look. They listened attentively to what Mr. Monroe said, asked few or no questions, and seemed appalled at the unusual task they had before them.

Only one juror impressed me unpleasantly. That was Mr. Orville, a youngish man, who seemed rather elated at the position in which he found himself. He fingered nearly everything on the desk; he peered carefully into the face of the victim of the crime, and he somewhat ostentatiously made notes in a small Russia leather memorandum book.

He spoke often to the coroner, saying things which seemed to me impertinent, such as, “Have you noticed the blotter, Mr. Coroner? Very often, you know, much may be learned from the blotter on a man’s desk.”

As the large blotter in question was by no means fresh, indeed was thickly covered with ink impressions, and as there was nothing to indicate that Mr. Crawford had been engaged in writing immediately before his death, Mr. Orville’s suggestion was somewhat irrelevant. And, too, the jurors were not detectives seeking clues, but were now merely learning the known facts.

However, Mr. Orville fussed around, even looking into the wastebasket, and turning up a corner of a large rug as if ferreting for evidence.

The others exhibited no such minute curiosity, and, after a few moments, they followed the coroner out of the room.

Then the doctor and his assistants came to take the body away, and I went in search of Coroner Monroe, eager for further information concerning the case, of which I really, as yet, knew but little.

Parmalee went with me and we found Mr. Monroe in the library, quite ready to talk with us.

“Mr. Orville seems to possess the detective instinct himself,” observed Mr. Parmalee, with what seemed like a note of jealousy in his tone.

“The true detective mind,” returned Mr. Monroe, with his slow pomposity, “is not dependent on instinct or intuition.”

“Oh, I think it is largely dependent on that,” I said, “or where does it differ from the ordinary inquiring mind?”

“I’m sure you will agree with me, Mr. Burroughs,” the coroner went on, almost as if I had not spoken, “that it depends upon a nicely adjusted mentality that is quick to see the cause back of an effect.”

To me this seemed a fair definition of intuition, but there was something in the unctuous roll of Mr. Monroe’s words that made me positive he was quoting his somewhat erudite speech, and had not himself a perfectly clear comprehension of its meaning.

“It’s guessing,” declared Parmalee, “that’s all it is, guessing. If you guess right, you’re a famous detective; if you guess wrong, you’re a dub. That’s all there is about it.”

“No, no, Mr. Parmalee,”—and Mr. Monroe slowly shook his finger at the rash youth—“what you call guessing is really divination. Yes, my dear sir, it is actual divination.”

“To my mind,” I put in, “detective divination is merely minute observation. But why do we quibble over words and definitions when there is much work to be done? When is the formal inquest to be held, Mr. Monroe?”

“This afternoon at two o’clock,” he replied.

“Then I’ll go away now,” I said, “for I must find an abiding place for myself in West Sedgwick. There is an inn, I suppose.”

“They’ll probably ask you to stay here,” observed Coroner Monroe, “but I advise you not to do so. I think you’ll be freer and less hampered in your work if you go to the inn.”

“I quite agree with you,” I replied. “But I see little chance of being invited to stay here. Where is the family? Who are in it?”

“Not many. There is Miss Florence Lloyd, a niece of Mr. Crawford. That is, she is the niece of his wife. Mrs. Crawford has been dead many years, and Miss Lloyd has kept house for her uncle all that time. Then there is Mrs. Pierce, an elderly lady and a distant relative of Mr. Crawford’s. That is all, except the secretary, Gregory Hall, who lives here much of the time. That is, he has a room here, but often he is in New York or elsewhere on Mr. Crawford’s business.”

“Mr. Crawford had an office both here and in New York?” I asked.

“Yes; and of late years he has stayed at home as much as possible. He went to New York only about three or four days in the week, and conducted his business from here the rest of the time. Young Hall is a clever fellow, and has been Mr. Crawford’s righthand man for years.”

“Where is he now?”

“We think he’s in New York, but haven’t yet been able to locate him at Mr. Crawford’s office there, or at his club. He is engaged to Miss Lloyd, though I understand that the engagement is contrary to Mr. Crawford’s wishes.”

“And where is Miss Lloyd,—and Mrs. Pierce?”

“They are both in their rooms. Mrs. Pierce is prostrated at the tragedy, and Miss Lloyd simply refuses to make her appearance.”

“But she’ll have to attend the inquest?”

“Oh, yes, of course. She’ll be with us then. I think I won’t say anything about her to you, as I’d rather you’d see her first with entirely unprejudiced eyes.”

“So you, too, think Miss Lloyd is implicated?”

“I don’t think anything about it, Mr. Burroughs. As coroner it is not my place to think along such lines.”

“Well, everybody else thinks so,” broke in Parmalee. “And why? Because there’s no one else for suspicion to light on. No one else who by any possibility could have done the deed.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Parmalee,” said I, “there must be others. They may not yet have come to our notice, but surely you must admit an intruder could have come into the room by way of those long, open windows.”

“These speculations are useless, gentlemen,” said Mr. Monroe, with his usual air of settling the matter. “Cease then, I beg, or at least postpone them. If you are walking down the avenue, Mr. Parmalee, perhaps you’ll be good enough to conduct Mr. Burroughs to the Sedgwick Arms, where he doubtless can find comfortable accommodations.”

I thanked Mr. Monroe for the suggestion, but said, straightforwardly enough, that I was not yet quite ready to leave the Crawford house, but that I would not detain Mr. Parmalee, for I could myself find my way to the inn, having noticed it on my drive from the train.

So Parmalee went away, and I was about to return to Mr. Crawford’s office where I hoped to pursue a little uninterrupted investigation.

But Mr. Monroe detained me a moment, to present me to a tall, fine-looking man who had just come in.

He proved to be Philip Crawford, a brother of Joseph, and I at once observed a strong resemblance between their two faces.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Burroughs,” he said. “Mr. Monroe tells me you are a clever and experienced detective, and I trust you can help us to avenge this dastardly crime. I am busy with some important matters just now, but later I shall be glad to confer with you, and be of any help I can in your investigation.”

I looked at Mr. Philip Crawford curiously. Of course I didn’t expect him to give way to emotional grief, but it jarred on me to hear him refer to his brother’s tragic death in such cold tones, and with such a businesslike demeanor.

However, I realized I did not know the man at all, and this attitude might be due to his effort in concealing his real feelings.

He looked very like his brother Joseph, and I gathered from the appearance of both men, and the manner of Philip, that the Crawford nature was one of repression and self-control. Moreover, I knew nothing of the sentiments of the two brothers, and it might easily be that they were not entirely in sympathy.

I thanked him for his offer of help, and then as he volunteered no further observations, I excused myself and proceeded alone to the library.

As I entered the great room and closed the door behind me, I was again impressed by the beauty and luxury of the appointments. Surely Joseph Crawford must have been a man of fine calibre and refined tastes to enjoy working in such an atmosphere. But I had only two short hours before the inquest, and I had many things to do, so for the moment I set myself assiduously to work examining the room again. As in my first examination, I did no microscopic scrutinizing; but I looked over the papers on and in the desk, I noted conditions in the desk of Mr. Hall, the secretary, and I paid special attention to the position of the furniture and windows, my thoughts all directed to an intruder from outside on Mr. Crawford’s midnight solitude.

I stepped through the long French window on to the veranda, and after a thorough examination of the veranda, I went on down the steps to the gravel walk. Against a small rosebush, just off the walk, I saw a small slip of pink paper. I picked it up, hardly daring to hope it might be a clue, and I saw it was a trolley transfer, whose punched holes indicated that it had been issued the evening before. It might or might not be important as evidence, but I put it carefully away in my note-book for later consideration.

Returning to the library I took the newspaper which I had earlier discovered from the drawer where I had hidden it, and after one more swift but careful glance round the room, I went away, confident that I had not done my work carelessly.

I left the Crawford house and walked along the beautiful avenue to the somewhat pretentious inn bearing the name of Sedgwick Arms.

Here, as I had been led to believe, I found pleasant, even luxurious accommodations. The landlord of the inn was smiling and pleasant, although landlord seems an old-fashioned term to apply to the very modern and up-to-date man who received me.

His name was Carstairs, and he had the genial, perceptive manner of a man about town.

“Dastardly shame!” he exclaimed, after he had assured himself of my identity. “Joseph Crawford was one of our best citizens, one of our finest men. He hadn’t an enemy in the world, my dear Mr. Burroughs—not an enemy! generous, kindly nature, affable and friendly with all.”

“But I understand he frowned on his ward’s love affair, Mr. Carstairs.”

“Yes; yes, indeed. And who wouldn’t? Young Hall is no fit mate for Florence Lloyd. He’s a fortune-hunter. I know the man, and his only ambition is the aggrandizement of his own precious self.”

“Then you don’t consider Miss Lloyd concerned in this crime?”

“Concerned in crime? Florence Lloyd! why, man, you must be crazy! The idea is unthinkable!”

I was sorry I had spoken, but I remembered too late that the suspicions which pointed toward Miss Lloyd were probably known only to those who had been in the Crawford house that morning. As for the townspeople in general, though they knew of the tragedy, they knew very little of its details.

I hastened to assure Mr. Carstairs that I had never seen Miss Lloyd, that I had formed no opinions whatever, and that I was merely repeating what were probably vague and erroneous suspicions of mistakenly-minded people.

At last, behind my locked door, I took from my pocket the newspaper I had brought from Mr. Crawford’s office.

It seemed to me important, from the fact that it was an extra, published late the night before.

An Atlantic liner had met with a serious accident, and an extra had been hastily put forth by one of the most enterprising of our evening papers. I, myself, had bought one of these extras, about midnight; and the finding of a copy in the office of the murdered man might prove a clue to the criminal.

I then examined carefully the transfer slip I had picked up on the Crawford lawn. It had been issued after nine o’clock the evening before. This seemed to me to prove that the holder of that transfer must have been on the Crawford property and near the library veranda late last night, and it seemed to me that this was plain common-sense reasoning, and not mere intuition or divination. The transfer might have a simple and innocent explanation, but until I could learn of that, I should hold it carefully as a possible clue.

IV. THE INQUEST

Shortly before two o’clock I was back at the Crawford house and found the large library, where the inquest was to be held, already well filled with people. I took an inconspicuous seat, and turned my attention first to the group that comprised, without a doubt, the members of Mr. Crawford’s household.

Miss Lloyd—for I knew at a glance the black-robed young woman must be she—was of a striking personality. Tall, large, handsome, she could have posed as a model for Judith, Zenobia, or any of the great and powerful feminine characters in history. I was impressed not so much by her beauty as by her effect of power and ability. I had absolutely no reason, save Parmalee’s babblings, to suspect this woman of crime, but I could not rid myself of a conviction that she had every appearance of being capable of it.

Yet her face was full of contradictions. The dark eyes were haughty, even imperious; but the red, curved mouth had a tender expression, and the chin, though firm and decided-looking, yet gave an impression of gentleness.

On the whole, she fascinated me by the very mystery of her charm, and I found my eyes involuntarily returning again and again to that beautiful face.

She was dressed in a black, trailing gown of material which I think is called China crepe. It fell around her in soft waving folds and lay in little billows on the floor. Her dark hair was dressed high on her head, and seemed to form a sort of crown which well suited her regal type. She held her head high, and the uplift of her chin seemed to be a natural characteristic.

Good birth and breeding spoke in every phase of her personality, and in her every movement and gesture. I remembered Parmalee’s hint of unworthy ancestors, and cast it aside as impossible of belief. She spoke seldom, but occasionally turned to the lady at her side with a few murmured words that were indubitably those of comfort or encouragement.

Her companion, a gray-haired, elderly lady, was, of course, Mrs. Pierce. She was trembling with the excitement of the occasion, and seemed to depend on Florence Lloyd’s strong personality and affectionate sympathy to keep her from utter collapse.

Mrs. Pierce was of the old school of gentlewomen. Her quiet, black gown with its crepe trimmings, gave, even to my masculine eye an effect of correct and fashionable, yet quiet and unostentatious mourning garb.

She had what seemed to me a puzzling face. It did not suggest strength of character, for the soft old cheeks and quivering lips indicated no strong self-control, and yet from her sharp, dark eyes she now and again darted glances that were unmistakably those of a keen and positive personality.

I concluded that hers was a strong nature, but shaken to its foundation by the present tragedy. There was, without doubt, a great affection existing between her and Miss Lloyd, and yet I felt that they were not in each other’s complete confidence.

Though, for that matter, I felt intuitively that few people possessed the complete confidence of Florence Lloyd. Surely she was a wonderful creature, and as I again allowed myself to gaze on her beautiful face I was equally convinced of the possibility of her committing a crime and the improbability of her doing so.

Near these two sat a young man who, I was told, was Gregory Hall, the secretary. He had been reached by telephone, and had come out from New York, arriving shortly after I had left the Crawford house.

Mr. Hall was what may be termed the average type of young American citizens. He was fairly good-looking, fairly well-groomed, and so far as I could judge from his demeanor, fairly well-bred. His dark hair was commonplace, and parted on the side, while his small, carefully arranged mustache was commonplace also. He looked exactly what he was, the trusted secretary of a financial magnate, and he seemed to me a man whose dress, manner, and speech would always be made appropriate to the occasion or situation. In fact, so thoroughly did he exhibit just such a demeanor as suited a confidential secretary at the inquest of his murdered employer, that I involuntarily thought what a fine undertaker he would have made. For, in my experience, no class of men so perfectly adapt themselves to varying atmospheres as undertakers.

Philip Crawford and his son, an athletic looking young chap, were also in this group. Young Crawford inherited to a degree the fine appearance of his father and uncle, and bade fair to become the same kind of a first-class American citizen as they.

Behind these people, the ones most nearly interested in the procedure, were gathered the several servants of the house.

Lambert, the butler, was first interviewed.

The man was a somewhat pompous, middle-aged Englishman, and though of stolid appearance, his face showed what might perhaps be described as an intelligent stupidity.

After a few formal questions as to his position in the household, the coroner asked him to tell his own story of the early morning.

In a more clear and concise way than I should have thought the man capable of, he detailed his discovery of his master’s body.

“I came down-stairs at seven this morning,” he said, “as I always do. I opened the house, I saw the cook a few moments about matters pertaining to breakfast, and I attended to my usual duties. At about half-past seven I went to Mr. Crawford’s office, to set it in order for the day, and as I opened the door I saw him sitting in his chair. At first I thought he’d dropped asleep there, and been there all night, then in a moment I saw what had happened.”

“Well, what did you do next?” asked the coroner, as the man paused.

“I went in search of Louis, Mr. Crawford’s valet. He was just coming down the stairs. He looked surprised, for he said Mr. Crawford was not in his room, and his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“Did he seem alarmed?”

“No, sir. Not knowing what I knew, he didn’t seemed alarmed. But he seemed agitated, for of course it was most unusual not finding Mr. Crawford in his own room.”

“How did Louis show his agitation?” broke in Mr. Orville.

“Well, sir, perhaps he wasn’t to say agitated,—he looked more blank, yes, as you might say, blank.”

“Was he trembling?” persisted Mr. Orville, “was he pale?” and the coroner frowned slightly at this juror’s repeated inquisitiveness.

“Louis is always pale,” returned the butler, seeming to make an effort to speak the exact truth.

“Then of course you couldn’t judge of his knowledge of the matter,” Mr. Orville said, with an air of one saying something of importance.

“He had no knowledge of the matter, if you mean Mr. Crawford’s death,” said Lambert, looking disturbed and a little bewildered.

“Tell your own story, Lambert,” said Coroner Monroe, rather crisply. “We’ll hear what Louis has to say later.”

“Well, sir, then I took Louis to the office, and we both saw the—the accident, and we wondered what to do. I was for telephoning right off to Doctor Fairchild, but Louis said first we’d better tell Miss Florence about it.”

“And did you?”

“We went out in the hall, and just then Elsa, Miss Lloyd’s maid, was on the stairs. So we told her, and told her to tell Miss Lloyd, and ask her for orders. Well, her orders was for us to call up Doctor Fairchild, and so we did. He came as soon as he could, and he’s been in charge ever since, sir.”

“A straightforward story, clearly told,” observed the coroner, and then he called upon Louis, the valet. This witness, a young Frenchman, was far more nervous and excited than the calm-mannered butler, but the gist of his story corroborated Lambert’s.

Asked if he was not called upon to attend his master at bedtime, he replied,

“Non, M’sieu; when Monsieur Crawford sat late in his library, or his office, he dismiss me and say I may go to bed, or whatever I like. Almost alway he tell me that.”

“And he told you this last night?”

“But yes. When I lay out his clothes for dinner, he then tell me so.”

Although the man seemed sure enough of his statements he was evidently troubled in his mind. It might have been merely that his French nature was more excitable than the stolid indifference of the English butler. But at the same time I couldn’t help feeling that the man had not told all he knew. This was merely surmise on my part, and I could not persuade myself that there was enough ground for it to call it even an intuition. So I concluded it best to ask no questions of the valet at present, but to look into his case later.

Parmalee, however, seemed to have concluded differently. He looked at Louis with an intent gaze as he said, “Had your master said or done anything recently to make you think he was despondent or troubled in any way?”

“No, sir,” said the man; but the answer was not spontaneous, and Louis’s eyes rolled around with an expression of fear. I was watching him closely myself, and I could not help seeing that against his will his glance sought always Florence Lloyd, and though he quickly averted it, he was unable to refrain from furtive, fleeting looks in her direction.

“Do you know anything more of this matter than you have told us?” inquired the coroner of the witness.

“No, sir,” replied Louis, and this time he spoke as with more certainty. “After Lambert and I came out of Mr. Crawford’s office, we did just exactly as Lambert has tell you.”

“That’s all, Louis.... But, Lambert, one other matter. Tell us all you know of Mr. Joseph Crawford’s movements last evening.”

“He was at dinner, as usual, sir,” said the butler, in his monotonous drawl. “There were no guests, only the family. After dinner Mr. Crawford went out for a time. He returned about nine o’clock. I saw him come in, with his own key, and I saw him go to his office. Soon after Mr. Porter called.”

“Mr. Lemuel Porter?” asked the coroner.

“Yes, sir,” said the butler; and Mr. Porter, who was one of the jurors, gravely nodded his head in acquiescence.

“He stayed until about ten, I should say,” went on the butler, and again Mr. Porter gave an affirmative nod. “I let him out myself,” went on Lambert, “and soon after that I went to the library to see if Mr. Crawford had any orders for me. He told me of some household matters he wished me to attend to to-day, and then he said he would sit up for some time longer, and I might go to bed if I liked. A very kind and considerate man, sir, was Mr. Crawford.”

“And did you then go to bed?”

“Yes, sir. I locked up all the house, except the office. Mr. Crawford always locks those windows himself, when he sits up late. The ladies had already gone to their rooms; Mr. Hall was away for the night, so I closed up the front of the house, and went to bed. That’s all I know about the matter, sir—until I came down-stairs this morning.”

“You heard no sound in the night—no revolver shot?”

“No, sir. But my room is on the third floor, and at the other end of the house, sir. I couldn’t hear a shot fired in the office, I’m sure, sir.”

“And you found no weapon of any sort in the office this morning?”