“At last we are getting to it,” said Stone; “why in the name of all good detectives, didn’t you hunt up that other woman?”
“But she is perhaps only a figment of Miss Lloyd’s brain.”
“Figments of the brains of engaged young ladies are apt to have a solid foundation of flesh and blood. I think much could be learned concerning Mr. Hall’s straying fancy. But tell me again about his attitude toward Miss Lloyd, in the successive developments of the will question.”
Fleming Stone was deeply interested as I rehearsed how, when Florence was supposed to be penniless, he wished to break the engagement. When Philip Crawford offered to provide for her, Mr. Hall was uncertain; but when the will was found, and Florence was known to inherit all her uncle’s property, then Gregory Hall not only held her to the engagement, but said he had never wished to break it.
“H’m,” said Stone. “Pretty clear that the young man is a fortune-hunter.”
“He is,” I agreed. “I felt sure of that from the first.”
“And he is now under arrest, calmly waiting for someone to prove his innocence, so he can marry the heiress.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said. “But I don’t think Florence is quite as much in love with him as she was. She seems to have realized his mercenary spirit.”
Perhaps an undue interest in my voice or manner disclosed to this astute man the state of my own affections, for he gave me a quizzical glance, and said, “Oho! sits the wind in that quarter?”
“Yes,” I said, determined to be frank with him. “It does. I want you, to free Gregory Hall, if he’s innocent. Then if, for any reason, Miss Lloyd sees fit to dismiss him, I shall most certainly try to win her affections. As I came to this determination when she was supposed to be penniless, I can scarcely be accused of fortune-hunting myself.”
“Indeed, you can’t, old chap. You’re not that sort. Well, let’s go to see your district attorney and his precious prisoner, and see what’s to be done.”
We went to the district attorney’s office, and, later, accompanied by him and by Mr. Randolph, we visited Gregory Hall.
As I had expected, Mr. Hall wore the same unperturbed manner he always showed, and when Fleming Stone was introduced, Hall greeted him coldly, with absolutely no show of interest in the man or his work.
Fleming Stone’s own kindly face took on a slight expression of hauteur, as he noticed his reception, but he said, pleasantly enough:
“I am here in an effort to aid in establishing your innocence, Mr. Hall.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Hall listlessly.
I wondered whether this asking to have a remark repeated was merely a foolish habit of Hall’s, or whether, as I had heretofore guessed, it was a ruse to gain time.
Fleming Stone looked at him a little more sharply as he repeated his remark in clear, even tones.
“Thank you,” said Hall, pleasantly enough. “I shall be glad to be free from this unjust suspicion.”
“And as a bit of friendly advice,” went on Stone, “I strongly urge that you, reveal to us, confidentially, where you were on Tuesday night.”
Hall looked the speaker straight in the eye.
“That,” he said, “I must still refuse to do.”
Fleming Stone rose and walked toward the window.
“I think,” he said, “the proof of your innocence may depend upon this point.”
Gregory Hall turned his head, and followed Stone with his eyes.
“What did you say, Mr. Stone?” he asked quietly.
The detective returned to his seat.
“I said,” he replied, “that the proof of your innocence might depend on your telling this secret of yours. But I begin to think now you will be freed from suspicion whether you tell it or not.”
Instead of looking glad at this assurance, Gregory Hall gave a start, and an expression of fear came into his eyes.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Have you any letters in your pocket, Mr. Hall?” went on Fleming Stone in a suave voice.
“Yes; several. Why?”
“I do not ask to read them. Merely show me the lot.”
With what seemed to be an unwilling but enforced movement, Mr. Hall drew four or five letters from his breast pocket and handed them to Fleming Stone.
“They’ve all been looked over, Mr. Stone,” said the district attorney; “and they have no bearing on the matter of the crime.”
“Oh, I don’t want to read them,” said the detective.
He ran over the lot carelessly, not taking the sheets from the envelopes, and returned them to their owner.
Gregory Hall looked at him as if fascinated. What revelation was this man about to make?
“Mr. Hall,” Fleming Stone began, “I’ve no intention of forcing your secret from you. But I shall ask you some questions, and you may do as you like about answering them. First, you refuse to tell where you were during the night last Tuesday. I take it, you mean you refuse to tell how or where you spent the evening. Now, will you tell us where you lodged that night?”
“I fail to see any reason for telling you,” answered Hall, after a moment’s thought. “I have said I was in New York City, that is enough.”
“The reason you may as well tell us,” went on Mr. Stone, “is because it is a very simple matter for us to find out. You doubtless were at some hotel, and you went there because you could not get a room at your club. In fact, this was stated when the coroner telephoned for you, the morning after the murder. I mean, it was stated that the club bedrooms were all occupied. I assume, therefore, that you lodged at some hotel, and, as a canvass of the city hotels would be a simple matter, you may as well save us that trouble.”
“Oh, very well,” said Gregory Hall sullenly; “then I did spend the night at a hotel. It was the Metropolis Hotel, and you will find my name duly on the register.”
“I
