lly
into the face of the victim of the crime, and he somewhat ostentatiously
made notes in a small Russia leather memorandum book.

He spoke often to the coroner, saying things which seemed to me
impertinent, such as, "Have you noticed the blotter, Mr. Coroner? Very
often, you know, much may be learned from the blotter on a man's desk."

As the large blotter in question was by no means fresh, indeed was
thickly covered with ink impressions, and as there was nothing to
indicate that Mr. Crawford had been engaged in writing immediately
before his death, Mr. Orville's suggestion was somewhat irrelevant. And,
too, the jurors were not detectives seeking clues, but were now merely
learning the known facts.

However, Mr. Orville fussed around, even looking into the wastebasket,
and turning up a corner of a large rug as if ferreting for evidence.

The others exhibited no such minute curiosity, and, after a few moments,
they followed the coroner out of the room.

Then the doctor and his assistants came to take the body away, and
I went in search of Coroner Monroe, eager for further information
concerning the case, of which I really, as yet, knew but little.

Parmalee went with me and we found Mr. Monroe in the library, quite
ready to talk with us.

"Mr. Orville seems to possess the detective instinct himself," observed
Mr. Parmalee, with what seemed like a note of jealousy in his tone.

"The true detective mind," returned Mr. Monroe, with his slow pomposity,
"is not dependent on instinct or intuition."

"Oh, I think it is largely dependent on that," I said, "or where does it
differ from the ordinary inquiring mind?"

"I'm sure you will agree with me, Mr. Burroughs," the coroner went on,
almost as if I had not spoken, "that it depends upon a nicely adjusted
mentality that is quick to see the cause back of an effect."

To me this seemed a fair definition of intuition, but there was
something in the unctuous roll of Mr. Monroe's words that made me
positive he was quoting his somewhat erudite speech, and had not himself
a perfectly clear comprehension of its meaning.

"It's guessing," declared Parmalee, "that's all it is, guessing. If you
guess right, you're a famous detective; if you guess wrong, you're a
dub. That's all there is about it."

"No, no, Mr. Parmalee,"--and Mr. Monroe slowly shook his finger at the
rash youth--"what you call guessing is really divination. Yes, my dear
sir, it is actual divination."

"T