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.