THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN
The enormity of suspecting Philip Crawford was so great, to my mind, that I went at once to the district attorney's office for consultation with him.
Mr. Goodrich listened to what I had to say, and then, when I waited for comment, said quietly:
"Do you know, Mr. Burroughs, I have thought all along that Philip Crawford was concealing something, but I didn't think, and don't think now, that he has any guilty secret of his own. I rather fancied he might know something that, if told, would be detrimental to Miss Lloyd's cause."
"It may be so," I returned, "but I can't see how that would make him conceal the fact of his having been on that late train Tuesday night. Why, I discussed with him the possibility of Hall's coming out on it, and it would have been only natural to say he was on it, and didn't see Hall."
"Unless he did see him," remarked the district attorney.
"Yes; there's that possibility. He may be shielding Hall for Miss Lloyd's sake - and - "
"Let's go to see him," suggested Mr. Goodrich. "I believe in the immediate following up of any idea we may have."
It was about five in the afternoon, an hour when we were likely to find Mr. Crawford at home, so we started off at once, and on reaching his house we were told that Mr. Randolph was with him in the library, but that he would see us. So to the library we went, and found Mr. Crawford and his lawyer hard at work on the papers of the Joseph Crawford estate.
Perhaps it was imagination, but I thought I detected a look of apprehension on Philip Crawford's face, as we entered, but he greeted us in his pleasant, simple way, and asked us to be seated.
"To come right to the point, Mr. Crawford," said the district attorney, " Mr. Burroughs and I are still searching for new light on the tragedy of your brother's death. And now Mr. Burroughs wants to put a few questions to you, which may help him in his quest."
Philip Crawford looked straight at me with his piercing eyes, and it seemed to me that he straightened himself, as for an expected blow.
"Yes, Mr. Burroughs," he said courteously. "What is it you want to ask?"
So plain and straightforward was his manner, that I decided to be equally direct.
"Did you come out in that midnight train from New York last Tuesday night?" I began.
"I did," he replied, in even tones.
"While on the train did you sit behind a lady who left a gold bag in the seat when she got out?"
"I did."
"Did you pick up that bag and take it away with you?"
"I did."
"Then, Mr. Crawford, as that is the gold bag that was found in your brother's office, I think you owe a more detailed explanation."
To say that the lawyer and the district attorney, who heard these questions and answers, were astounded, is putting it too mildly.
They were almost paralyzed with surprise and dismay.
To hear these condemning assertions straight from the lips of the man they incriminated was startling indeed.
"You are right," said Philip Crawford. "I do owe an explanation, and I shall give it here and now."
Although what he was going to say was doubtless a confession, Mr.
Crawford's face showed an unmistakable expression of relief. He seemed like a man who had borne a terrible secret around with him for the past week, and was now glad that he was about to impart it to some one else.
He spoke very gravely, but with no faltering or hesitation.
"This is a solemn confession," he said, turning to his lawyer, "and is made to the district attorney, with yourself and Mr.
Burroughs as witnesses."
Mr. Randolph bowed his head, in acknowledgment of this formal statement.
"I am a criminal in the eyes of the law," said Mr. Crawford, in an impersonal tone, which I knew he adopted to hide any emotion he might feel. "I have committed a dastardly crime. But I am not the murderer of my brother Joseph."
We all felt our hearts lightened of a great load, for it was impossible to disbelieve that calm statement and the clear gaze of those truthful, unafraid eyes.
"The story I have to tell will sound as if I might have been my brother's slayer, and this is why I assert the contrary at the outset."
Pausing here, Mr. Crawford unlocked the drawer of a desk and took out a small pistol, which he laid on the table.
"That," he said, "is my revolver, and it is the weapon with which my brother was killed."
I felt a choking sensation. Philip Crawford's manner was so far removed from a sensational - or melodramatic effect, that it was doubly impressive. I believed his statement that he did not kill his brother, but what could these further revelations mean?
Hall? Florence? Young Philip? Whom would Philip Crawford thus shield for a whole week, and then, when forced to do so, expose?
"You are making strange declarations, Mr. Crawford," Said Lawyer Randolph, who was already white-faced and trembling.
"I know it," went on Philip Crawford, "and I trust you three men will hear my story through, and then take such measures as you see fit.
"This pistol, as I said, is my property. Perhaps about a month ago, I took it over to my brother Joseph. He has always been careless of danger, and as he was in the habit of sitting in his office until very late, with the long windows open on a dark veranda, I often told him he ought to keep a weapon in his desk, by way of general protection. Then, after there had been a number of burglaries in West Sedgwick, I took this pistol to him, and begged him as a favor to me to let it stay in his desk drawer as a precautionary measure. He laughed at my solicitude, but put it away in a drawer, the upper right-hand one, among his business papers. So much for the pistol.
