I reached West Sedgwick, as Donovan had said, at quarter before eleven. Though I had never been there before, the place looked quite as I had imagined it. The railway station was one of those modern attractive structures of rough gray stone, with picturesque projecting roof and broad, clean platforms. A flight of stone steps led down to the roadway, and the landscape in every direction showed the well-kept roads, the well-grown trees and the carefully-tended estates of a town of suburban homes. The citizens were doubtless mainly men whose business was in New York, but who preferred not to live there.
The superintendent must have apprised the coroner by telephone of my immediate arrival, for a village cart from the Crawford establishment was awaiting me, and a smart groom approached and asked if I were Mr. Herbert Burroughs.
A little disappointed at having no more desirable companion on my way to the house, I climbed up beside the driver, and the groom solemnly took his place behind. Not curiosity, but a justifiable desire to learn the main facts of the case as soon as possible, led me to question the man beside me.
I glanced at him first and saw only the usual blank countenance of the well-trained coachman.
His face was intelligent, and his eyes alert, but his impassive expression showed his habit of controlling any indication of interest in people or things.
I felt there would be difficulty in ingratiating myself at all, but I felt sure that subterfuge would not help me, so I spoke directly.
“You are the coachman of the late Mr. Crawford?”
“Yes, sir.”
I hadn't really expected more than this in words, but his tone was so decidedly uninviting of further conversation that I almost concluded to say nothing more. But the drive promised to be a fairly long one, so I made another effort.
“As the detective on this case, I wish to hear the story of it as soon as I can. Perhaps you can give me a brief outline of what happened.”
It was perhaps my straightforward manner, and my quite apparent assumption of his intelligence, that made the man relax a little and reply in a more conversational tone.
“We're forbidden to chatter, sir,” he said, “but, bein' as you're the detective, I s'pose there's no harm. But it's little we know, after all. The master was well and sound last evenin', and this mornin' he was found dead in his own office-chair.”
“You mean a private office in his home?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Crawford went to his office in New York 'most every day, but days when he didn't go, and evenin's and Sundays, he was much in his office at home, sir.”
“Who discovered the tragedy?”
“I don't rightly know, sir, if it was Louis, his valet, or Lambert, the butler, but it was one or t'other, sir.”
“Or both together?” I suggested.
“Yes, sir; or both together.”
“Is any one suspected of the crime?”
The man hesitated a moment, and looked as if uncertain what to reply, then, as he set his jaw squarely, he said:
“Not as I knows on, sir.”
“Tell me something of the town,” I observed next, feeling that it was better to ask no more vital questions of a servant.
We were driving along streets of great beauty. Large and handsome dwellings, each set in the midst of extensive and finely-kept grounds, met the view on either aide. Elaborate entrances opened the way to wide sweeps of driveway circling green velvety lawns adorned with occasional shrubs or flower-beds. The avenues were wide, and bordered with trees carefully set out and properly trimmed. The streets were in fine condition, and everything betokened a community, not only wealthy, but intelligent and public-spirited. Surely West Sedgwick was a delightful location for the homes of wealthy New York business men.
“Well, sir,” said the coachman, with unconcealed pride, “Mr. Crawford was the head of everything in the place. His is the handsomest house and the grandest grounds. Everybody respected him and looked up to him. He hadn't an enemy in the world.”
This was an opening for further conjecture as to the murderer, and I said: “But the man who killed him must have been his enemy.”
“Yes, sir; but I mean no enemy that anybody knew of. It must have been some burglar or intruder.”
Though I wanted to learn such facts as the coachman might know, his opinions did not interest me, and I again turned my attention to the beautiful residences we were passing.
“That place over there,” the man went on, pointing with his whip, “is Mr. Philip Crawford's house—the brother of my master, sir. Them red towers, sticking up through the trees, is the house of Mr. Lemuel Porter, a great friend of both the Crawford brothers. Next, on the left, is the home of Horace Hamilton, the great electrician. Oh, Sedgwick is full of well-known men, sir, but Joseph Crawford was king of this town. Nobody'll deny that.”
I knew of Mr. Crawford's high standing in the city, and now, learning of his local preeminence, I began to think I was about to engage in what would probably be a very important case.
II. THE CRAWFORD HOUSE
“Here we are, sir,” said the driver, as we turned in at a fine stone gateway. “This is the Joseph Crawford place.”
He spoke with a sort of reverent pride, and I afterward learned that his devotion to his late master was truly exceptional.
This probably prejudiced him in favor of the Crawford place and all its appurtenances, for, to me, the estate was not so magnificent as some of the others we had passed. And yet, though not so large, I soon realized that every detail of art or architecture was perfect in its way, and that it was really a gem of a country home to which I had been brought.
We drove along a curving road to the house, passing well-arranged flower beds, and many valuable trees and shrubs. Reaching the porte cochere the driver stopped, and the groom sprang down to hand me out.
As might be expected, many people were about. Men stood talking in groups on the veranda, while messengers were seen hastily coming or going through the open front doors.
A waiting servant in the hall at once ushered me into a large room.
The effect of the interior of the house impressed me pleasantly. As I passed through the wide hall and into the drawing-room, I was conscious of an atmosphere of wealth tempered by good taste and judgment.
The drawing-room was elaborate, though not ostentatious, and seemed well adapted as a social setting for Joseph Crawford and his family. It should have been inhabited by men and women in gala dress and with smiling society manners.
It was therefore a jarring note when I perceived its only occupant to be a commonplace looking man, in an ill-cut and ill-fitting business suit. He came forward to greet me, and his manner was a trifle pompous as he announced, “My name is Monroe, and I am the coroner. You, I think, are Mr. Burroughs, from New York.”
It was probably not intentional, and may have been my imagination, but his