“You don’t admit the gold bag as a clue, then?” I asked.
“Nonsense! No! If that were a clue, it would point to some woman who came secretly at night to visit Joseph. My brother was not that sort of man, sir. He had no feminine acquaintances that were unknown to his relatives.”
“That is, you suppose so.”
“I know it! We have been brothers for sixty years or more, and whatever Joseph’s faults, they did not lie in that direction. No, sir; if that bag is not Florence’s, then there is some other rational and commonplace explanation of its presence there.”
“I’m glad to hear you speak so positively, Mr. Crawford, as to your brother’s feminine acquaintances. And in connection with the subject, I would like to show you this photograph which I found in his desk.”
I handed the card to Mr. Crawford, whose features broke into a smile as he looked at it.
“Oh, that,” he said; “that is a picture, of Mrs. Patton.” He looked at the picture with a glance that seemed to be of admiring reminiscence, and he studied the gentle face of the photograph a moment without speaking.
Then he said, “She was beautiful as a girl. She used to be a school friend of both Joseph and myself.”
“She wrote rather an affectionate message on the back,” I observed.
Mr. Crawford turned the picture over.
“Oh, she didn’t send this picture to Joseph. She sent it to my wife last Christmas. I took it over to show it to Joseph some months ago, and left it there without thinking much about it. He probably laid it in his desk without thinking much about it, either. No, no, Burroughs, there is no romance there, and you can’t connect Mrs. Patton with any of your detective investigations.”
“I rather thought that, Mr. Crawford; for this is evidently a sweet, simple-minded lady, and more over nothing has turned up to indicate that Mr. Crawford had a romantic interest of any kind.”
“No, he didn’t. I knew Joseph as I know myself. No; whoever killed my brother, was a man; some villain who had a motive that I know nothing about.”
“But you were intimately acquainted with your brother’s affairs?”
“Yes, that is what proves to me that whoever this assassin was, it was someone of whose motive I know nothing. The fact that my brother was murdered, proves to me that my brother had an enemy, but I had never suspected it before.”
“Do you know a Mrs. Egerton Purvis?”
I flung the question at him, suddenly, hoping to catch him unawares. But he only looked at me with the blank expression of one who hears a name for the first time.
“No,” he answered, “I never heard of her. Who is she?”
“Well, when I was hunting through that gold-mesh bag, I discovered a lady’s visiting card with that name on it. It had slipped between the linings, and so had not been noticed before.”
To my surprise, this piece of information seemed to annoy Mr. Crawford greatly.
“No!” he exclaimed. “In the bag? Then someone has put it there! for I looked over all the bag’s contents myself.”
“It was between the pocket and the lining,” said I; “it is there still, for as I felt sure no one else would discover it, I left it there. Mr. Goodrich has the bag.”
“Oh, I don’t want to see it,” he exclaimed angrily. “And I tell you anyway, Mr. Burroughs, that bag is worthless as a clue. Take my advice, and pay no further attention to it.”
I couldn’t understand Mr. Crawford’s decided attitude against the bag as a clue, but I dropped the subject, for I didn’t wish to tell him I had made plans to trace up that visiting card.
“It is difficult to find anything that is a real clue,” I said.
“Yes, indeed. The whole affair is mysterious, and, for my part, I cannot form even a conjecture as to who the villain might have been. He certainly left no trace.”
“Where is the revolver?” I said, picturing the scene in imagination.
Philip Crawford started as if caught unawares.
“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
