was conscious myself of a growing regard for Irene, and while I could wish her a little softer and more sympathetic toward the prisoner, yet I couldn't help admiring her splendid appreciation of law and justice.
As for the Maxwells, Miss Miranda was so completely crushed already, that another unexpected blow could make but little difference in her demeanor. She said she could not believe Gilbert guilty, but that it was not for her to judge.
Alexander Maxwell showed a like philosophical spirit. After the first shock of surprise, he admitted that justice must have its way, wherever that way might lead; but he again begged us not to be misled by false or incomplete clues, and to prove beyond all doubt whatever we accepted as a fact.
I fully shared the old gentleman's spirit of caution, and kept a vigilant watch on Mr. Hunt's proceedings. But I was forced to admit the evidence all pointed one way, and my only hope lay in the fact that it was purely circumstantial evidence.
Resolved, if possible, to find some weak spot in Hunt's diagnosis of the case, I obtained permission to visit Gilbert Crane in his cell.
I felt a certain embarrassment as I entered, for I expected to see a despairing, broken-down man.
But I found I did not yet know Gilbert Crane. Instead of appearing dejected, he rose to greet me with an expectant look, and held out his hand.
"Will you take it?" he said impulsively, and eagerly. "You need not hesitate. It is the hand of an honest man. I am no more guilty of Philip's death than is Philip himself."
Quite aside from his words, there was honor and truth in the sound of his voice, and the look of his eye. I am very sensitive to deceit, and in every fibre of my being I felt at that moment that an honest man stood before me.
Acting in accordance with this conviction I grasped his hand heartily, and said:
"I am sure of it! I admit, and you must admit yourself, that the circumstantial evidence against you is pretty bad. But even before your denial I could not think you guilty, and now you have removed any lurking doubt I may have had."
"Thank you," said Crane simply. "And now I wonder if you can help me."
"It is what I want to do," I said, "but I fear I can do little. I have tried to get at some counterevidence, or refutation of Hunt's theories, but so far I have been unable to do so."
"That's just the point," said Gilbert, in a practical way that seemed to show me a new side of this man. "I don't know myself what to tell you to do. The whole situation is so absurd. To me it is like lightning out of a clear sky.
"Here am I, arrested for the murder of a man' who was one of my best friends. I didn't murder him, and yet circumstances are such that I cannot prove I did not."
"Since we are speaking frankly," I said, "will you tell me if you touched the pistol that Miss Leslie held?"
Gilbert looked at me gravely. "I will," he said. "I ought to have been more straightforward about that, but I didn't mention it, because I thought it of absolutely no importance.
"When I saw the bodies, I thought that Philip was dead, but that Miss Leslie was still living. I went nearer to look, and on an impulse I started to take the pistol from her hand. But I at once realized that it would be better to call Dr. Sheldon before I touched anything, and I did so."
"You didn't pause to pick up the bronze horse?" I asked.
"Certainly not," was the surprised reply.
"That horse and inkstand play a most mysterious part in the matter. But there must be some explanation for them, and we must find it."
"It will be made clear," said Gilbert, "if you do what I ask."
"I am more than willing to do your bidding," I said.
"Then send for Stone. He is a New York detective, and though I do not know him personally, I know enough about him to feel sure he can unravel this tangle as no one else can."
"How shall I find him?"
"I don't know his address. You will have to go or write to Jack Hemingway; he can tell you. Stone will be expensive, but this is no time for economy. Will you get him?"
"I certainly will," I replied, "and do all in my power to help him."
"Fleming Stone won't need much help," said Gilbert, not ungratefully, but decidedly, "he is a wizard. He can see right through anybody or anything."
"Then he is the man for us, and I'll go for him myself."
"Perhaps," said Crane, after a moment's thought, "it would be wiser not to let it be generally known that he is a celebrated detective."
"All right," I replied; "but the Maxwells will have to know it, because I want to put him up there. They'll be willing, I know. Indeed, Mr. Maxwell has himself suggested that we should get a city detective down."
"I know it," said Gilbert, "but I wish you'd act as if he were just a friend of yours who has a taste for detective work."
"Very well, I'll fix it that way then. But I hate to have you staying here, even for a few days."
"That can't be helped," said Gilbert, "and mustn't be considered. If you can only get Fleming Stone to come down here, I am as good as released."
Glad that he could view the situation in this cheerful manner, I went away, prepared to go at once on Gilbert's errand.
Miss Maxwell hospitably agreed to my proposal to burden her home with another visitor, but Mr. Maxwell did not seem quite pleased.
I couldn't help wondering if he thought that a more astute detective would only succeed in proving Gilbert's guilt more conclusively. He expressed himself as thinking it wise to let well enough alone, but as he made no definite protest against my going, I went to New York that very day in search of Fleming Stone.
I found him, and after some persuasion, I induced him to return to Hamilton with me in the interests of Gilbert Crane.
Never shall I forget the delight of my first long conversation with Fleming Stone.
As to personal appearance, he was a fine-looking man without being in any way remarkably handsome. He was large and well-formed, between forty and fifty years old, with iron-gray hair and a clear, healthy complexion.
His eyes were his chief charm and their attraction lay largely in their expression, and in their surrounding dark lashes and brows. Mr. Stone had a kindly smile, and his face in repose seemed to denote an even temper and a gracious disposition. He was possessed of great personal magnetism, and the liking which I felt for him the first moment I saw him, grew rapidly into admiration.
On the way down, at his request, I told him everything I knew about the Maxwell mystery. He was intensely interested; and I was secretly filled with joy when he expressed a decided approval of the methods I had used in discovering the red ink.
After I had told him every detail of the story, he changed the subject courteously, but very decidedly, and talked of other matters.
He was a brilliant conversationalist, which surprised me, for my mental picture of a great detective had always represented a most taciturn gentleman of sinister
