The Gold Bag by Carolyn Wells (page 3)

threatened it, to see if Florence persisted in keeping her engagement.”

This was a generous speech on the part of Philip Crawford. To be sure, generosity of speech couldn’t affect the disposal of the estate. If no will were found, it must by law go to the brother, but none the less the hearty, whole-souled way in which he spoke of Miss Lloyd was greatly to his credit as a man.

“I think so, too,” agreed Mr. Porter. “As you know, I called on Mr. Joseph Crawford during the – the last evening of his life.”

The speaker paused, and indeed it must have been a sad remembrance that pictured itself to his mind.

“Did he then refer to the matter of the will?” asked Mr. Randolph, in gentle tones.

“He did. Little was said on the subject, but he told me that unless Florence consented to his wishes in the matter of her engagement to Mr. Hall, he would make a new will, leaving her only a small bequest.”

“In what manner did you respond, Mr. Porter?”

“I didn’t presume to advise him definitely, but I urged him not to be too hard on the girl, and, at any rate, not to make a new will until he had thought it over more deliberately.”

“What did he then say?”

“Nothing of any definite import. He began talking of other matters, and the will was not again referred to. But I can’t help thinking he had not destroyed it.”

At this, Miss Lloyd seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Gregory Hall, she gave a little sigh, and remained silent.

“You know of nothing that can throw any light on the matter of the will, Mr. Hall?” asked Mr. Randolph.

“No, sir. Of course this whole situation is very embarrassing for me. I can only say that I have known for a long time the terms of Mr. Crawford’s existing will; I have known of his threats of changing it; I have known of his attitude toward my engagement to his niece. But I never spoke to him on any of these subjects, nor he to me, though several times I have thought he was on the point of doing so. I have had access to most of his private papers, but of two or three small boxes he always retained the keys. I had no curiosity concerning the contents of these boxes, but I naturally assumed his will was in one of them. I have, however, opened these boxes since Mr. Crawford’s death, in company with Mr. Randolph, and we found no will. Nor could we discover any in the New York office or in the bank. That is all I know of the matter.”

Gregory Hall’s demeanor was dignified and calm, his voice even and, indeed, cold. He was like a bystander, with no vital interest in the subject he talked about.

Knowing, as I did, that his interest was vital, I came to the conclusion that he was a man of unusual self-control, and an ability to mask his real feelings completely. Feeling that nothing more could be learned at present, I left the group in the library discussing the loss of the will, and went down to the district attorney’s office.

He was, of course, surprised at my news, and agreed with me that it gave us new fields for conjecture.

“Now, we see,” he said eagerly, “that the motive for the murder was the theft of the will.”

“Not necessarily,” I replied. “Mr. Crawford may have destroyed the will before he met his death.”

“But that would leave no motive. No, the will supplies the motive. Now, you see, this frees Miss Lloyd from suspicion. She would have no reason to kill her uncle and then destroy or suppress a will in her own favor.”

“That reasoning also frees Mr. Hall from suspicion,” said I, reverting to my former theories.

“Yes, it does. We must look for the one who has benefited by the removal of the will. That, of course, would be the brother, Mr. Philip Crawford.”

I looked at the attorney a moment, and then burst into laughter.

“My dear Mr. Goodrich,” I said, “don’t be absurd! A man would hardly shoot his own brother, but aside from that, why should Philip Crawford kill Joseph just at the moment he is about to make a new will in Philip’s favor? Either the destruction of the old will or the drawing of the new would result in Philip’s falling heir to the fortune. So he would hardly precipitate matters by a criminal act. And, too, if he had been keen about the money, he could have urged his brother to disinherit Florence Lloyd, and Joseph would have willingly done so. He was on the very point of doing so, any way.”

“That’s true,” said Mr. Goodrich, looking chagrined but unconvinced. “However, it frees Miss Lloyd from all doubts, by removing her motive. As you say, she wouldn’t suppress a will in her favor, and thereby turn the fortune over to Philip. And, as you also said, this lets Gregory Hall out, too, though I never suspected him for a moment. But, of course, his interests and Miss Lloyd’s are identical.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, for new thoughts were rapidly following one another through my brain. “Not so fast, Mr. District Attorney. The disappearance of the will does not remove motive from the possibility of Miss Lloyd’s complicity in this crime – or Mr. Hall’s either.”

“How so?”

“Because, if Florence Lloyd thought her uncle was in possession of that will, her motive was identically the same as if he had possessed it. Now, she certainly thought he had it, for her surprise at the news of its loss was as unfeigned as my own. And of course Hall thought the will was among Mr. Crawford’s effects, for he has been searching constantly since the question was raised.”

“But I thought that yesterday you were so sure of Miss Lloyd’s innocence,” objected Mr. Goodrich.

“I was,” I said slowly, “and I think I am still. But in the light of absolute evidence I am only declaring that the non-appearance of that will in no way interferes with the motive Miss Lloyd must have had if she is in any way guilty. She knew, or thought she knew, that the will was there, in her favor. She knew her uncle intended to revoke it and make another in her disfavor. I do not accuse her – I’m not sure I suspect her – I only say she had motive and opportunity.”

As I walked away from Mr. Goodrich’s office, those words rang in my mind, motive and opportunity. Truly they applied to Mr. Hall as well as to Miss Lloyd, although of course it would mean Hall’s coming out from the city and returning during the night. And though this might have been a difficult thing to do secretly, it was by no means impossible. He might not have come all the way to West Sedgwick Station, but might have dropped off the train earlier and taken the trolley. The trolley! that thought reminded me of the transfer I had picked up on the grass plot near the office veranda. Was it possible that slip of paper was a clue, and pointing toward Hall?

Without definite hope of seeing Gregory Hall, but hopeful of learning something about him, I strolled back to the Crawford house. I went directly to the office, and by good luck found Gregory Hall there alone. He was still searching among the papers of Mr. Crawford’s desk.

“Ah, Mr. Burroughs,” he said, as I entered, “I’m glad to see you. If detectives detect, you have a fine chance here to do a bit of good work. I wouldn’t mind offering you an honorarium myself, if you could unearth the will that has so mysteriously disappeared.”

Hall’s whole manner had changed. He had laid aside entirely the grave demeanor which he had shown at the funeral, and was again the alert business man. He was more than this. He was eager, – offensively so,- in his search for the will. It needed no detective instinct to see that the fortune of Joseph Crawford and its bestowment were matters of vital interest to him.

But though his personal feelings on the subject might be distasteful to me, it was certainly part of my duty to aid in the search, and so with him I looked through the various drawers and filing cabinets. The papers representing or connected with the financial interests of the late millionaire were neatly filed and labelled; but in some parts of the desk we found the hodge-podge of personal odds and ends which accumulates with nearly everybody.

Hall seemed little interested in those, but to my mind they showed a possibility of casting some light on Mr. Crawford’s personal affairs.

But among old letters, photographs, programs, newspaper clippings, and such things, there was nothing that seemed of the slightest interest, until at last I chanced upon a photograph that arrested my attention.

“Do you know who this is?” I inquired.

“No,” returned Hall, with a careless glance at it; “a friend of Mr. Crawford’s, I suppose.”

“More than a friend, I should judge,” and I turned the back of the picture toward him. Across it was written, “with loving Christmas greetings, from M.S.P.”; and it was dated as recently as the Christmas previous.

“Well,” said Hall, “Mr. Crawford may have had a lady friend who cared enough about him to send an affectionate greeting, but I never heard of her before, and I doubt if she is in any way responsible for the disappearance of this will.”

He went on searching through the desks, giving no serious heed to the photograph. But to me it seemed important. I alone knew of the visiting card in the gold bag. I alone knew that that bag belonged to a lady named Purvis. And here was a photograph initialed by a lady whose surname began with P, and who was unmistakably on affectionate terms with Mr. Crawford. To my mind the links began to form a chain; the lady who had sent her photograph at Christmas, and who had left her gold bag in Mr. Crawford’s office the night he was killed, surely was a lady to be questioned.

But I had not yet had a reply to my telegram to headquarters, so I said nothing to Hall on this subject, and putting the photograph in my pocket continued to assist him to look for the will, but without success. However, the discovery of the photograph had in a measure diverted my suspicions from Gregory Hall; and though I endeavored to draw him into general conversation, I did not ask him any definite questions about himself.

But the more I talked with him, the more I disliked him: He not only showed a mercenary, fortune-hunting spirit, but he showed himself in many ways devoid of the finer feelings and chivalrous nature that ought to belong to the man about to marry such a perfect flower of womanhood as Florence Lloyd.

XI

LOUIS’S STORY

After spending an evening in thinking over the situation and piecing together my clues, I decided that the next thing to be done was to trace up that transfer. If I could fasten that upon Gregory Hall, it would indeed be a starting point to work from. Although this seemed to eliminate Mrs. Purvis, who had already become a living entity in my mind, I still had haunting suspicions of Hall; and then, too, there was a possibility of collusion between these two. It might be fanciful, but if Hall and the Purvis woman were both implicated, Hall was quite enough a clever villain to treat the photograph lightly as he had done.

And so the next morning, I started for the office of the trolley car company.

I learned without difficulty that the transfer I had found, must have been given to some passenger the night of Mr. Crawford’s death, but was not used. It had been issued after nine o’clock in the evening, somewhere on the line between New York and West Sedgwick. It was a transfer which entitled a passenger on that line to a trip on the branch line running through West Sedgwick, and the fact that it had not been used, implied either a negligent conductor or a decision on the part of the passenger not to take his intended ride.

All this was plausible, though a far from definite indication that Hall might have come out from New York by trolley, or part way by trolley, and though accepting a transfer on the West Sedgwick branch, had concluded not to use it. But the whole theory pointed equally as well to Mrs. Purvis, or indeed to the unknown intruder insisted upon by so many. I endeavored to learn something from certain conductors who brought their cars into West Sedgwick late at night, but it seemed they carried a great many passengers and of course could not identify a transfer, of which scores of duplicates had been issued.

Without much hope I interviewed the conductors of the West Sedgwick Branch Line. Though I could learn nothing definite, I fell into conversation with one of them, a young Irishman, who was interested because of my connection with the mystery.

“No, sir,” he said, “I can’t tell you anythin’ about a stray transfer. But one thing I can tell you. That ‘ere murder was committed of a Toosday night, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I returned.

“Well, that ‘ere parlyvoo vally of Mr. Crawford’s, he’s rid, on my car ‘most every Toosday night fer weeks and weeks. It’s his night off. And last Toosday night he didn’t ride with me. Now I don’t know’s that means anything, but agin it might.”

It didn’t seem to me that it meant much, for certainly Louis was not under the slightest suspicion. And yet as I came to think about it, if that had been Louis’s transfer and if he had dropped it near the office veranda, he had lied when he said that he went round the other side of the house to reach the back entrance.

It was all very vague, but it narrowed itself down to the point that if that were Louis’s transfer it could be proved; and if not it must be investigated further. For a trolley transfer, issued at a definite hour, and dropped just outside the scene of the crime was certainly a clue of importance.

I proceeded to the Crawford house, and though I intended to have a talk with Louis later, I asked first for Miss Lloyd. Surely, if I were to carry on my investigation of the case, in her interests, I must have a talk with her. I had not intruded before, but now that the funeral was over, the real work of tracking the criminal must be commenced, and as one of the principal characters in the sad drama, Miss Lloyd must play her part.

Until I found myself in her presence I had not actually realized how much I wanted this interview.

I was sure that what she said, her manner and her facial expression, must either blot out or strengthen whatever shreds of suspicion I held against her.

“Miss Lloyd,” I began, “I am, as you know, a detective; and I am here in Sedgwick for the purpose of discovering the cowardly assassin of your uncle. I assume that you wish to aid me in any way you can. Am I right in this?”

Instead of the unhesitating affirmative I had expected, the girl spoke irresolutely. “Yes,” she said, “but I fear I cannot help you, as I know nothing about it.”

The fact that this reply did not sound to me as a rebuff, for which it was doubtless intended, I can only account for by my growing appreciation of her wonderful beauty.

Instead of funereal black, Miss Lloyd was clad all in white, and her simple wool gown gave her a statuesque appearance; which, however, was contradicted by the pathetic weariness in her face and the sad droop of her lovely mouth. Her helplessness appealed to me, and, though she assumed an air of composure, I well knew it was only assumed, and that with some difficulty.

Resolving to make it as easy as possible for her, I did not ask her to repeat the main facts, which I already knew.

“Then, Miss Lloyd,” I said, in response to her disclaimer, “if you cannot help me, perhaps I can help you. I have reason to think that possibly Louis, your late uncle’s valet, did not tell the truth in his testimony at the coroner’s inquest. I have reason to think that instead of going around the house to the back entrance as he described, he went around the other side, thus passing your uncle’s office.”

To my surprise this information affected Miss Lloyd much more seriously than I supposed it would.

“What?” she said, and her voice was a frightened whisper. “What time did he come home?”

“I don’t know,” I replied; “but you surely don’t suspect Louis of anything wrong. I was merely hoping, that if he did pass the office he might have looked in, and so could tell us of your uncle’s well-being at that time.”

“At what time?”

“At whatever time he returned home. Presumably rather late. But since you are interested in the matter, will you not call Louis and let us question him together?”

The girl fairly shuddered at this suggestion. She hesitated, and for a moment was unable to speak. Of course this behavior on her part filled my soul with awful apprehension. Could it be possible that she and Louis were in collusion, and that she dreaded the Frenchman’s disclosures? I remembered the strange looks he had cast at her while being questioned by the coroner. I remembered his vehement denial of having passed the office that evening, – too vehement, it now seemed to me. However, if I were to learn anything damaging to Florence Lloyd’s integrity, I would rather learn it now, in her presence, than elsewhere. So I again asked her to send for the valet.

With a despairing look, as of one forced to meet an impending fate, she rose, crossed the room and rang a bell. Then she returned to her seat and said quietly, “You may ask the man such questions as you wish, Mr. Burroughs, but I beg you will not include me in the conversation.”

“Not unless it should be necessary,” I replied coldly, for I did not at all like her making this stipulation. To me it savored of a sort of cowardice, or at least a presumption on my own chivalry.

When the man appeared, I saw at a glance he was quite as much agitated as Miss Lloyd. There was no longer a possibility of a doubt that these two knew something, had some secret in common, which bore directly on the case, and which must be exposed. A sudden hope flashed into my mind that it might be only some trifling secret, which seemed of importance to them, but which was merely a side issue of the great question.

I considered myself justified in taking advantage of the man’s perturbation, and without preliminary speech I drew the transfer from my pocket and fairly flashed it in his face.

“Louis,” I said sternly, “you dropped this transfer when you came home the night of Mr. Crawford’s death.”

The suddenness of my remark had the effect I desired, and fairly frightened the truth out of the man.

“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, and then with a frightened glance at Miss Lloyd, he stood nervously interlacing his fingers.

I glanced at Miss Lloyd myself, but she had regained entire self-possession, and sat looking straight before her with an air that seemed to say, “Go on, I’m prepared for the worst.”

As I paused myself to contemplate the attitudes of the two, I lost my ground of vantage, for when I again spoke to the man, he too was more composed and ready to reply with caution. Doubtless he was influenced by Miss Lloyd’s demeanor, for he imitatively assumed a receptive air.

“Where did you get the transfer?” I went on.

“On the trolley, sir; the main line.”

“To be used on the Branch Line through West Sedgwick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you not use it?”

“As I tell you, sir, and as I tell monsieur, the coroner, I have spend that evening with a young lady. We went for a trolley ride, and as we returned I take a transfer for myself, but not for her, as she live near where we alight.”

“Oh, you left the main line and took the young lady home, intending then yourself to come by trolley through West Sedgwick?”

“Yes, sir; it was just that way.”

At this point Louis seemed to forget his embarrassment, his gaze strayed away, and a happy expression came into his eyes. I felt sure I was reading his volatile French nature aright, when I assumed his mind had turned back to the pleasant evening he had spent with his young lady acquaintance. Somehow this went far to convince me of the fellow’s innocence for it was quite evident the murder and its mystery were not uppermost in his thoughts at that moment. But my next question brought him beck to realization of the present situation.

“And why didn’t you use your transfer?”

“Only that the night, he was so pleasant, I desired to walk.”

“And so you walked through the village, holding, perhaps, the transfer in your hand?”

“I think, yes; but I do not remember the transfer in my hand, though he may have been there.”

And now the man’s unquiet had returned. His lips twitched and his dark eyes rolled about, as he endeavored in vain to look anywhere but at Miss Lloyd. She, too, was controlling herself by a visible effort.

Anxious to bring the matter to a crisis, I said at once, and directly:

“And then you entered the gates of this place, you walked to the house, you walked around the house to the back by way of the path which leads around by the library veranda, and you accidentally dropped your transfer near the veranda step.”

I spoke quietly enough, but Louis immediately burst into voluble denial.

“No, no!” he exclaimed; “I do not go round by the office, I go the other side of the house. I have tell you so many times.”

“But I myself picked up your transfer near the office veranda.”

“Then he blow there. The wind blow that night, oh, something fearful! He blow the paper around the house, I think.”

“I don’t think so,” I retorted; “I think you went around the house that way, I think you paused at the office window – “

Just here I made a dramatic pause myself, hoping thus to appeal to the emotional nature of my victim. And I succeeded. Louis almost shrieked as he pressed his hands against his eyes, and cried out: “No! no! I tell you I did not go round that way! I go round the other way, and the wind – the wind, he blow my transfer all about!”

I tried a more quiet manner, I tried persuasive arguments, I finally resorted to severity and even threats, but no admission could I get from Louis, except that he had not gone round the house by way of the office. I was positive the man was lying, and I was equally positive that Miss Lloyd knew he was lying, and that she knew why, but the matter seemed to me at a deadlock. I could have questioned her, but I preferred to do that when Louis was not present. If she must suffer ignominy it need not be before a servant. So I dismissed Louis, perhaps rather curtly, and turning to Miss Lloyd, I asked her if she believed his assertion that he did not pass by the office that night.

“I don’t know what I believe,” she answered, wearily drawing her hand across her brow. “And I can’t see that it matters anyway. Supposing he did go by the office, you certainly don’t suspect him of my uncle’s murder, do you?”

“It is my duty, Miss Lloyd,” I said gently, for the girl was pitiably nervous, “to get the testimony of any one who was in or near the office that night. But of course testimony is useless unless it is true.”

I looked her straight in the eyes as I said this, for I was thoroughly convinced that her own testimony at the inquest had not been entirely true.

I think she understood my glance, for she arose at once, and said with extreme dignity: “I cannot see any necessity for prolonging this interview, Mr. Burroughs. It is of course your work to discover the truth or falsity of Louis’s story, but I cannot see that it in any way implicates or even interests me.”

The girl was superb. Her beauty was enhanced by the sudden spirit she showed, and her flashing dark eyes suggested a baited animal at bay. Apparently she had reached the limit of her endurance, and was unwilling to be questioned further or drawn into further admissions. And yet, some inexplicable idea came to me that she was angry, not with me, but with the tangle in which I had remorselessly enmeshed her. Of a high order of intelligence, she knew perfectly well that I was conscious of the fact that there was a secret of some sort between her and the valet. Her haughty disdain, I felt sure, was to convey the impression that though there might be a secret between them, it was no collusion or working together, and that though her understanding with the man was mysterious, it was in no way beneath her dignity. Her imperious air as she quietly left the room thrilled me anew, and I began to think that a woman who could assume the haughty demeanor of an empress might have chosen, as empresses had done before her, to commit crime.

However, she went away, and the dark and stately library seemed to have lost its only spot of light and charm. I sat for a few minutes pondering over it all, when I saw passing through the hall, the maid, Elsa. It suddenly occurred to me, that having failed with the mistress of the house, I might succeed better with her maid, so I called the girl in.

She came willingly enough, and though she seemed timid, she was not embarrassed or afraid.

“I’m in authority here,” I said, “and I’m going to ask you some questions, which you must answer truthfully.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, without any show of interest.

“Have you been with Miss Lloyd long?”

“Yes, sir; about four years, sir.”

“Is she a kind mistress?”

“Indeed she is, sir. She is the loveliest lady I ever worked for. I’d do anything for Miss Lloyd, that I would.”

“Well, perhaps you can best serve her by telling all you know about the events of Tuesday night.”

“But I don’t know anything, sir,” and Elsa’s eyes opened wide in absolutely unfeigned wonderment.

“Nothing about the actual murder; no, of course not. But I just want you to tell me a few things about some minor matters. Did you take the yellow flowers from the box that was sent to Miss Lloyd?”

“Yes, sir; I always untie her parcels. And as she was at dinner, I arranged the flowers in a vase of water.”

“How many flowers were there?”

For some reason this simple query disturbed the girl greatly. She flushed scarlet, and then she turned pale. She twisted the corner of her apron in her nervous fingers, and then said, only half audibly, “I don’t know, sir.”

“Oh, yes, you do, Elsa,” I said in kindly tones, being anxious not to frighten her; “tell me how many there were. Were there not a dozen?”

“I don’t know, sir; truly I don’t. I didn’t count them at all.”

It was impossible to disbelieve her; she was plainly telling the truth. And, too, why should she count the roses? The natural thing would be not to count them, but merely to put them in the vase as she had said. And yet, there was something about those flowers that Elsa knew and wouldn’t tell. Could it be that I was on the track of that missing twelfth rose? I knew,, though perhaps Elsa did not, how many roses the florist had sent in that box. And unless Gregory Hall had abstracted one at the time of his purchase, the twelfth rose had been taken by some one else after the flowers reached the Crawford House. Could it have been Elsa, and was her perturbation only because of a guilty conscience over a petty theft of a flower? But I realized I must question her adroitly if I would find out these things.

“Is Miss Lloyd fond of flowers?” I asked, casually.

“Oh, yes, sir, she always has some by her.”

“And do you love flowers too, Elsa?”

“Yes, sir.” But the quietly spoken answer, accompanied by a natural and straightforward look promised little for my new theory.

“Does Miss Lloyd sometimes give you some of her flowers?”

“Oh, yes, sir, quite often.”

“That is, if she’s there when they arrive. But if she isn’t there, and you open the box yourself, she wouldn’t mind if you took one or two blossoms, would she?”

“Oh, no, sir, she wouldn’t mind. Miss Lloyd’s awful kind about such things. But I wouldn’t often do it, sir.”

“No; of course not. But you did happen to take one of those yellow roses, didn’t you, though?”

I breathlessly awaited the answer, but to my surprise, instead of embarrassment the girl’s eyes flashed with anger, though she answered quietly enough, “Well, yes, I did, sir.”

Ah, at last I was on the trail of that twelfth rose! But from the frank way in which the girl admitted having taken the flower, I greatly feared that the trail would lead to a commonplace ending.

“What did you do with it?” I said quietly, endeavoring to make the question sound of little importance.

“I don’t want to tell you;” and the pout on her scarlet lips seemed more like that of a wilful child than of one guarding a guilty secret.

“Oh, yes, tell me, Elsa;” and I even descended to a coaxing tone, to win the girl’s confidence.

“Well, I gave it to that Louis.”

“To Louis? and why do you call him that Louis?”

“Oh, because. I gave him the flower to wear because I thought he was going to take me out that evening. He had promised he would, at least he had sort of promised, and then, – and then – “

“And then he took another young lady,” I finished for her in tones of such sympathy and indignation that she seemed to think she had found a friend.

“Yes,” she said, “he went and took another girl riding on the trolley, after he had said he would take me.”

“Elsa,” I said suddenly, and I fear she thought I had lost interest in her broken heart, “did Louis wear that rose you gave him that night?”

“Yes, the horrid man! I saw it in his coat when he went away.”

“And did he wear it home again?”

“How should I know?” Elsa tossed her head with what was meant to be a haughty air, but which was belied by the blush that mantled her cheek at her own prevarication.

“But you do know,” I insisted, gently; “did he wear it when he came home?”

“Yes, he did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I looked in his room the next day, and I saw it there all withered. He had thrown it on the floor!”

The tragedy in Elsa’s eyes at this awful relation of the cruelty of the sterner sex called for a spoken sympathy, and I said at once, and heartily: “That was horrid of him! If I were you I’d never give him another flower.”

In accordance with the natural impulses of her sex, Elsa seemed pleased at my disapproval of Louis’s behavior, but she by no means looked as if she would never again bestow her favor upon him. She smiled and tossed her head, and seemed willing enough for further conversation, but for the moment I felt that I had enough food for thought. So I dismissed Elsa, having first admonished her not to repeat our conversation to any one. In order to make sure that I should be obeyed in this matter, I threatened her with some unknown terrors which the law would bring upon her if she disobeyed me. When I felt sure she was thoroughly frightened into secrecy concerning our interview, I sent her away and began to cogitate on what she had told me.

If Louis came to the house late that night, as by his own admission he did; if he went around the house on the side of the office, as the straying transfer seemed to me to prove; and if, at the time, he was wearing in his coat a yellow rose with petals similar to those found on the office floor the next morning, was not one justified in looking more deeply into the record of Louis the valet?

XII

LOUIS’S CONFESSION

Elsa had been gone but a few moments when Florence Lloyd returned to the library. I arose to greet her and marvelled at the change which had come over her. Surely here was a girl of a thousand moods. She had left me with an effect of hauteur and disdain; she returned, gentle and charming, almost humble. I could not understand it, and remained standing after she had seated herself, awaiting developments.

“Sit down, Mr. Burroughs,” she said, and her low, sweet voice seemed full of cordial invitation. “I’m, afraid I was rude to you, when I went away just now; and I want to say that if I can tell you anything you wish to know, I should be glad to do so.”

I drew up a chair and seated myself near her. My heart was pounding with excitement at this new phase of the girl’s nature. For an instant it seemed as if she must have a personal kindly feeling toward me, and then my reason returned, and with a suddenly falling heart and slowing pulses, I realized that I was a fool, and that after thinking over the disclosures Louis had made, Miss Lloyd had shrewdly concluded it was to her best advantage to curry favor with the detective. This knowledge came to me instinctively, and so I distrusted her gentle voice and winning smile, and hardening my heart against her, I resolved to turn this new mood of hers to my own advantage, and learn what I could while she was willing to converse:

“I’m glad of this opportunity, Miss Lloyd,” I said, “for there are some phases of this affair that I want to discuss with you alone. Let us talk the matter over quietly. It is as well that you should know that there are some doubts felt as to the entire truth of the story you told at the inquest. I do not say this to frighten you,” I added, as the poor girl clasped her hands and gave me a look of dumb alarm; “but, since it is so, I want to do all I can to set the matter right. Do you remember exactly all that took place, to your knowledge, on the night of your uncle’s death?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking more frightened still. It was evident that she knew more than she had yet revealed, but I almost forgot my inquiry, so absorbed was I in watching her lovely face. It was even more exquisite in its terrified pallor than when the fleeting pink showed in her cheeks.

“Then,” I said, “let us go over it. You heard your uncle go out at about eight o’clock and return about nine?”

“Yes, I heard the front door open and close both times.”

“You and Mrs. Pierce being in the music-room, of course. Then, later, you heard a visitor enter, and again you heard him leave?”

“Yes – Mr. Porter.”

“Did you know it was Mr. Porter, at the time he was here?”

“No; I think not. I didn’t think at all who it might be. Uncle Joseph often had men to call in the evening.”

“About what time did Mr. Porter leave?”

“A few minutes before ten. I heard Lambert say, `Good-night, sir,’ as he closed the door after him.”

“And soon after, you and Mrs. Pierce went upstairs?”

“Yes; only a few minutes after.”

“And, later, Mrs. Pierce came to your room?”

“Yes; about half-past ten, I should say; she came to get a book. She didn’t stay two minutes.”

“And after that, you went down-stairs again to speak to your uncle?” For the merest instant Miss Lloyd’s eyes closed and she swayed as if about to faint, but she regained her composure at once, and answered with some asperity

“I did not. I have told you that I did not leave my room again that night.”

Her dark eyes blazed, her cheeks flushed, and though her full lower lip quivered it was with anger now, not fear.

As I watched her, I wondered how I could have thought her more beautiful when pale. Surely with this glowing color she was at her glorious best.

“Then when did you drop the two rose petals there?” I went on, calmly enough, though my own heart was beating fast.

“I did not drop them. They were left there by some intruder.”

“But, Miss Lloyd,” and I observed her closely, “the petals were from a rose such as those Mr. Hall sent you that evening. The florist assures me there were no more such blossoms in West Sedgwick at that time. The fallen petals, then, were from one of your own roses, or – “

“Or?” asked Miss Lloyd, her hands pressed against the laces at her throbbing bosom. “Or?”

“Or,” I went on, “from a rose worn by some one who had come out from New York on a late train.”

For the moment I chose to ignore Louis’s rose for I wanted to learn anything Miss Lloyd could tell me. And, too, the yellow petals might have fallen from a flower in Hall’s coat after all. I thought it possible by suggesting this idea, to surprise from her some hint as to whether she had any suspicion of him.

She gave a gasp, and, leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes, as if spent with a useless struggle.

“Wait a moment,” she said, putting out her hand with an imploring gesture. “Wait a moment. Let me think. I will tell you all, but – wait – “

With her eyes still closed, she lay back against the satin chair cushion, and I gazed at her, fascinated.

I knew it! Then and there the knowledge came to me! Not her guilt, not her innocence. The crime seemed far away then, but I knew like a flash not only that I loved this girl, this Florence Lloyd, but that I should never love any one else. It mattered not that she was betrothed to another man; the love that had suddenly sprung to life in my heart was such pure devotion that it asked no return. Guilty or innocent, I loved her. Guilty or innocent, I would clear her; and if the desire of her heart were toward another, she should ever know or suspect my adoration for her.

I gazed at her lovely face, knowing that when her eyes opened I must discreetly turn my glance aside, but blessing every instant of opportunity thus given me.

Her countenance, though troubled and drawn with anxiety, was so pure and sweet that I felt sure of her innocence. But it should be my work to prove that to the world.

Suddenly her eyes flashed open; again her mood had changed.

“Mr. Burroughs,” she said, and there was almost a challenge in her tone, “why do you ask me these things? You are a detective, you are here to find out for yourself, not to ask others to find out. I am innocent of my uncle’s death, of course, but when you cast suspicion on the man to whom I am betrothed, you cannot expect me to help you confirm that suspicion. You have made me think by your remark about a man on a late train that you refer to Mr. Hall. Do you?”

This was a change of base, indeed. I was being questioned instead of doing the catechising myself. Very well; if it were my lady’s will to challenge me, I would meet her on her own ground.

“You took the hint very quickly,” I said. “Had you thought of such a possibility before?”

“No, nor do I now. I will not.” Again she was the offended queen. “But since you have breathed the suggestion, you may not count on any help from me.”

“Could you have helped me otherwise?” I said, detaining her as she swept by.

To this she made no answer, but again her face wore a troubled expression, and as she went slowly from the room, she left me with a strong conviction that she knew far more about Gregory Hall’s connection with the matter than she had told me.

I sat alone for a few moments wondering what I had better do next.

I had about decided to go in search of Parmalee, and talk things over with him, but I thought it would be better to see Louis first, and settle up the matter of his rose more definitely. Accordingly I rang the bell, and when the parlor maid answered it, I asked her to send both Louis and Elsa to me in the library.

I could see at once that these two were not friendly toward each other, and I hoped this fact would aid me in learning the truth from them.

“Now, Louis,” I began, “you may as well tell me the truth about your home coming last Tuesday night. In the first place, you must admit that you were wearing in your coat one of the yellow roses which had been sent to Miss Lloyd.”

“No, no, indeed!” declared Louis, giving Elsa a threatening glance, as if forbidding her to contradict him.

“Nonsense, man,” I said; “don’t stand there and tell useless lies. It will not help you. The best thing you can do for yourself and for all concerned is to tell the truth. And, moreover, if you don’t tell it to me now, you will have to tell it to Mr. Goodrich, later. Elsa gave you a yellow rose and you wore it away that evening when you went to see your young lady. Now what became of that rose?”

“I – I lost it, sir.”

“No, you didn’t lose it. You wore it home again, and when you retired, you threw it on the floor, in your own room.”

“No, sir. You make mistake. I look for him next day in my room, but cannot find him.”

I almost laughed at the man’s ingenuousness. He contradicted his own story so unconsciously, that I began to think he was more of a simpleton than a villain.

“Of course you couldn’t find it,” I informed him, “for it was taken from your room next day; and of course you didn’t look for it until after you had heard yellow roses discussed at the inquest.”

Louis’s easily read face proved my statement correct, but he glowered at Elsa, as he said: “Who take him away? who take my rose from my room.”

“But you denied having a rose, Louis. Now you’re asking who took it away. Once again, let me advise you to tell the truth. You’re not at all successful in telling falsehoods. Now answer me this: When you came home Tuesday night, did you or did you not walk around the house past the office window?”

“No, sir. I walked around the other side. I – “

“Stop, Louis! You’re not telling the truth. You did walk around by the office, and you dropped your transfer there. It never blew all around the house, as you have said it did.”

A look of dogged obstinacy came into the man’s eyes, but he did not look at me. He shifted his gaze uneasily, as he repeated almost in a singsong way, ” go round the other side of the house.”

It was a sort of deadlock. Without a witness to the fact, I could not prove that he had gone by the office windows, though I was sure he had.

But help came from an unexpected quarter.

Elsa had been very quiet during the foregoing conversation, but now she spoke up suddenly, and said: “He did go round by the office, Mr. Burroughs, and I saw him.”

I half expected to see Louis turn on the girl in a rage, but the effect of her speech on him was quite the reverse. He almost collapsed; he trembled and turned white, and though he tried to speak, he made no sound. Surely this man was too cowardly for a criminal; but I must learn the secret of his knowledge.

“Tell me about it, Elsa,” I said, quietly.

“I was looking out at my window, sir, at the back of the house; and I saw Louis come around the house, and he came around by the office side.”

“You’re positive of this, Elsa? you would swear to it? Remember, you are making an important assertion.”

“I am telling the truth, sir. I saw him plainly as he came around and entered at the back door.”

“You hear, Louis?” I said sternly. “I believe Elsa’s statement rather than yours, for she tells a straight story, while you are rattled and agitated, and have all the appearance of concealing something.”

Louis looked helpless. He didn’t dare deny Elsa’s story, but he would not confirm it. At last he said, with a glance of hatred at the girl, “Elsa, she tell that story to make the trouble for me.”

There was something in this. Elsa, I knew, was jealous, and her pride had been hurt because Louis had taken the rose she gave him, and then had gone to call on another girl. But I had no reason to doubt Elsa’s statement, and I had every reason to doubt Louis’s. I tried to imagine what Louis’s experience had really been, and it suddenly occurred to me, that though innocent himself of real wrong, he had seen something in the office, or through the office windows that he wished to keep secret. I did not for a moment believe that the man had killed his master, so I concluded he was endeavoring to shield someone else.

“Louis,” I said, suddenly, “I’ll tell you what you did. You went around by the office, you saw a light there late at night, and you naturally looked in. You saw Mr. Crawford there, and he was perhaps already killed. You stepped inside and discovered this, and then you came away, and said nothing about it, lest you yourself be suspected of the crime. Incidentally you dropped two petals from the rose Elsa had given you.”

Louis’s answer to this accusation was a perfect storm of denials, expressed in voluble French and broken English, but all to the effect that it was not true, and that if he had seen his master dead, he would have raised an alarm.

I saw that I had not yet struck the right idea, so I tried again. “Then, Louis, you must have passed the office before Mr. Crawford was killed, which is really more probable. Then as you passed the window, you saw something or someone in the office, and you’re not willing to tell about it. Is this it?”

This again brought forth only incoherent denial, and I could see that the man was becoming so rattled, it was difficult for him to speak clearly, had he desired to do so.

“Elsa,” I said, suddenly, “you took that rose from Louis’s room. What did you do with it?”

“I kept, – I mean, I don’t know what I did with it,” stammered the girl, blushing rosy red, and looking shyly at Louis.

I felt sorry to disclose the poor girl’s little romance, for it was easy enough to see that she was in love with the fickle Frenchman, who evidently did not reciprocate her interest. He looked at her disdainfully, and she presented a pathetic picture of embarrassment.

But the situation was too serious for me to consider Elsa’s sentiments, and I said, rather sternly: “You do know where it is. You preserved that rose as a souvenir. Go at once and fetch it.”

It was a chance shot, for I was not at all certain that she had kept the withered flower, but dominated by my superior will she went away at once. She returned in a moment with the flower.

Although withered, it was still in fairly good condition; quite enough so for me to see at a glance that no petals had been detached from it. The green calyx leaves clung around the bud in such a manner as to prove positively that the unfolding flower had lost no petal. This settled the twelfth ruse. Wherever those tell-tale petals had come from, they were not from Louis’s rose. I gave the flower back to Elsa, and I said, “take your flower, my girl, and go away now. I don’t want to question you any more for the present.”

A little bewildered at her sudden dismissal, Elsa went away, and I turned my attention to the Frenchman.

“Louis,” I began, “this must be settled here and now between us. Either you must tell me what I want to know, or you must be take before the district attorney, and be made to tell him. I have proved to my own satisfaction that the rose petals in the office were not from the flower you wore. Therefore I conclude that you did not go into the office that night, but as you passed the window you did see someone in there with Mr. Crawford. The hour was later than Mr. Porter’s visit, for he had already gone home, and Lambert had locked the front door and gone to bed. You came in later, and what you saw, or whom you saw through the office window so surprised you, or interested you, that you paused to look in, and there you dropped your transfer.”

Though Louis didn’t speak, I could see at once that I was on the right track at last. The man was shielding somebody. He was unwilling to tell what he had seen, lest it inculpate someone. Could it be Gregory Hall? If Hall had come out on a late train, and Louis had seen him there, he might, perhaps under Hall’s coercion, be keeping the fact secret. Again, if a strange woman with the gold bag had been in the office, that also would have attracted Louis’s attention. Again, and here my heart almost stopped beating, could he have seen Florence Lloyd in there? But a second thought put me at ease again. Surely to have seen Florence in there, would have been so usual and natural a sight that it could not have caused him anxiety. And yet, again, for him to have seen Florence in her uncle’s office, would have proved to him that the story she told at the inquest was false. I must get out of him the knowledge he possessed, if I had to resort to a sort of third degree. But I might manage it by adroit questioning.

“I quite understand, Louis, that you are shielding some person. But let me tell you that it is useless. It is much wiser for you to tell me all you know, and then I can go to work intelligently to find the man who murdered Mr. Crawford. You want me to find him, do you not?”

Louis seemed to have found his voice again. “Yes, sir, of course he must be found. Of course I want him found, – the miscreant, the villain! but, Mr. Burroughs, sir, what I have see in the office makes nothing to your search. I simply see Mr. Crawford alive and well. And I pass by. That fool girl Elsa, she tell you that I pass by, so I may say so. But I see nothing in the office to alarm me, and if I drop my transfer there, it is but because I think of him as no consequence, and I let him go.”

“Louis,” and I looked him straight in the eye, “all that sounds straightforward and true. But, if you saw nothing in the office to surprise or alarm you, why did you at first deny having passed by the office at all?”

The man had no answer for this. He was not ingenious in inventing falsehood, and he stood looking helpless and despairing. I perceived I should have to go on with my questioning.

“Was it a man or a woman you saw in there with Mr. Crawford?”

“I see nobody, sir, nobody but my master.”

That wouldn’t do, then. As long as I asked him direct questions he could answer falsely. I must trip him up in some roundabout way.

“Yes,” I said pleasantly, “I understand that. And what was Mr. Crawford doing?”

“He sat at his desk;” and Louis spoke slowly, and picked his words with care.

“Was he writing?”

“No; that is, yes, sir, he was writing.”

I now knew he was not writing, for the truth had slipped out before the man could frame up his lie. I believed I was going to learn something at last, if I could make the man tell. Surely the testimony of one who saw Joseph Crawford late that night was of value, and though that testimony was difficult to obtain, it was well worth the effort.

“And was Mr. Hall at his desk also?”

Louis stared at me. “Mr. Hall, he was in New York that night.” This was said so simply and unpremeditatedly, that I was absolutely certain it was not Hall whom Louis had seen there.

“Oh, yes, of course, so he was,” I said lightly; “and Mr. Crawford was writing, was he?”

“Yes, sir,” spoken with the dogged scowl which I was beginning to learn always accompanied Louis’s untruthful statements.

And now I decided to put my worst fear to the test and have it over with. It must be done, and I felt sure I could do it, but oh, how I dreaded it!

“Did Mr. Crawford look up or see you?”

“No, sir.”

“And didn’t Miss Florence see you, either?”

“No, sir.”

It was out. The mere fact that Louis answered that question so calmly and unconsciously proved he was telling the truth. But what a truth! for it told me at the same time that Florence Lloyd was in the office with her uncle, that Louis had seen her, but that she had not seen him. I had learned the truth from my reading of the man’s expression and demeanor, and though it made my heart sink, I didn’t for a moment doubt that it was the truth

Of course Louis realized the next instant what he had done, and again he began his stammering denials. “Of course, Miss Lloyd do not see me for she is not there. How can she see me, then? I tell you my master was alone!”

Had I been the least uncertain, this would have convinced me that I was right. For Louis’s voice rose almost to a shriek, so angry was he with himself for having made the slip.

“Give it up, Louis,” I said; “you have let out the truth, now be quiet. You couldn’t help it, man, you were bound to trip yourself up sooner or later. You put up a good fight for Miss Florence, and now that I understand why you told your falsehoods, I can’t help admiring your chivalry. You saw Miss Lloyd there that evening, you heard her next day at the inquest deny having been in the office in the evening. So, in a way, it was very commendable on your part to avoid contradicting her testimonies, with your own. But you are not clever enough, Louis, to carry out that deceit to the end. And now that you have admitted that you saw Miss Lloyd there, you can best help her cause, and best help me to help her cause, by telling me all about it. For rest assured, Louis, that I am quite as anxious to prove Miss Lloyd’s innocence as you can possibly be, and the only way to accomplish that end, is to learn as much of the truth as I possibly can. Now, tell me what she was doing.”

“Only talking to her uncle, sir.” Louis had the air of a defeated man. He had tried to shield Miss Lloyd’s name and had failed. Now he spoke sullenly, and as if his whole cause were lost.

“And Mr. Crawford was talking to her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was not writing, then?”

“No, sir.”

“Did they seem to be having an amicable conversation?”

Louis hesitated, and his hesitation was sufficient answer.

“Never mind,” I said, “you need not tell me more. In fact, I would prefer to get the rest of the story from Miss Lloyd, herself.”

Louis looked startled. “Don’t tell Miss Lloyd I told you this,” he begged; “I have try very hard not to tell you.”

“I know you tried hard, Louis, not to tell me, and it was not your fault that I wrung the truth from you. I will not tell Miss Lloyd that you told me, unless it should become necessary, and I do not think it will. Go away now, Louis, and do not discuss this matter with anybody at all. And, also, do not think for a moment that you have been disloyal in telling me that you saw Miss Lloyd. As I say, you couldn’t help it. I should simply have kept at you until I made you tell, so you need not blame yourself in the matter at all.”

Louis went away, and though I could see that he believed what I said, he had a dejected air, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the man who had so inadvertently given me the knowledge that must be used against the beautiful girl who had herself given untrue testimony.

XIII

MISS LLOYD’S CONFIDENCE

After Louis left me, I felt as if a dead weight had fallen on my heart. Florence Lloyd had gone down to her uncle’s office late that night, and yet at the inquest she had testified that she had not done so. And even to me, when talking quietly and alone, she had repeated her false assertion. This much I knew, but why she had done if, I did not know. Not until I was forced to do so, would I believe that even her falsehood in the matter meant that she herself was guilty. There must be some other reason for her mendacity.

Well, I would find out this reason, and if it were not a creditable one to her, I would still endeavor to do all I could for her. I longed to see her, and try if perhaps kind and gentle urging might not elicit the truth. But she had left me with such an air of haughty disdain, I hesitated to send for her again just now. And as it was nearly dinner time, I resolved to go back to my hotel.

On the way, I came to the conclusion that it would do no harm to have a talk with Parmalee.

I had not much confidence in his detective ability, but he knew the people better than I did, and might be able to give me information of some sort.

After I reached the Sedgwick Arms I telephoned Parmalee to come over and dine with me, and he readily consented.

During dinner I told him all that I had learned from Elsa and Louis. Of course I had no right to keep this knowledge to myself, and, too, I wanted Parmalee’s opinion on the situation as it stood at present.

“It doesn’t really surprise me,” he said, “for I thought all along, Miss Lloyd was not telling the truth. I’m not yet ready to say that I think she killed her uncle, although I must say it seems extremely probable. But if she didn’t commit the deed, she knows perfectly well who did.”

“Meaning Hall?”

“No, I don’t mean Hall. In fact I don’t mean any one in particular. I think Miss Lloyd was the instigator of the crime, and practically carried out its commission, but she may have had an assisting agent for the actual deed.”

“Oh, how you talk! It quite gives me the shivers even to think of a beautiful young woman being capable of such thoughts or deeds.”

“But, you see, Burroughs, that’s because you are prejudiced in favor of Miss Lloyd. Women are capable of crime as well as men, and sometimes they’re even more clever in the perpetration of it. And you must admit if ever a woman were capable of crime, Miss Lloyd is of that type.”

“I have to agree to that, Parmalee,” I admitted; “she certainly shows great strength of character.”

“She shows more than that; she has indomitable will, unflinching courage, and lots of pluck. If, for any reason, she made up her mind to kill a man, she’d find a way to do it.”

This talk made me cringe all over, but I couldn’t deny it, for so far as I knew Florence Lloyd, Parmalee’s words were quite true.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll grant her capability, but that doesn’t prove a thing. I don’t believe that girl is guilty, and I hope to prove her innocence.”

“But look at the evidence, man! She denied her presence in the room, yet we now know she was there. She denied the ownership of the gold bag, yet probably she was also untruthful in that matter. She is a woman of a complex nature, and though I admire her in many ways, I shouldn’t care to have much to do with her.”

“Let us leave out the personal note, Parmalee,” I said, for I was angry at his attitude toward Florence.

“All right. Don’t you think for a moment that I don’t see where you stand with regard to the haughty beauty, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Indeed it isn’t,” I returned; “and whatever may be my personal feeling toward Miss Lloyd, I can assure you it in no way influences my work on this case.”

“I believe you, old man; and so I’m sure you will agree with me that we must follow up the inquiry as to Miss Lloyd’s presence in the office that night. She must be made to talk, and perhaps it would be best to tell Goodrich all about it, and let him push the matter.”

“Oh, no,” I cried involuntarily. “Don’t set him on the track of the poor girl. That is, Parmalee, let me talk to her again, first. Now that I know she was down there that night, I think I can question her in a little different manner, and persuade her to own the truth. And, Parmalee, perhaps she was down there because Hall was there.”

“Hall! He was in New York.”

“So he says, but why should he speak the truth any more than Miss Lloyd?”

“You, mean they may both be implicated?”

“Yes; or he may have used her as a tool.”

“Not Florence Lloyd. She’s nobody’s tool.”

“Any woman might be a tool at the command of the man she loves. But,” I went on, with an air of conviction which was not entirely genuine, “Miss Lloyd doesn’t love Mr. Hall.”

“I don’t know about that,” returned Parmalee; “you can’t tell about a woman like Florence Lloyd. If she doesn’t love him, she’s at least putting up a bluff of doing so.”

“I believe it is a bluff, though I’m sure I don’t know why she should do that.”

“On the other hand, why shouldn’t she? For some reason she’s dead set on marrying him, ready to give up her fortune to do so, if necessary. He must have some sort of a pretty strong hold on her.”

“I admit all that, and yet I can’t believe she loves him. He’s such a commonplace man.”

“Commonplace doesn’t quite describe him. And yet Gregory Hall, with all the money in the world, could never make himself distinguished or worth while in any way.”

“No; and what would Miss Florence Lloyd see in a man like that, to make her so determined to marry him?”

“I don’t think she is determined, except that Hall has some sort of hold over her, – a promise or something, – that she can’t escape.”

My heart rejoiced at the idea that Florence was not in love with Hall, but I did not allow myself to dwell on that point, for I was determined to go on with the work, irrespective of my feelings toward her.

“You see,” Parmalee went on, “you suspect Hall, only because you’re prejudiced against him.”

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed; “that’s an awful thing to say, Parmalee. The idea of a detective suspecting a man, merely because he doesn’t admire his personality! And besides, it isn’t true. If I suspect Hall, it’s because I think he had a strong motive, a possible opportunity, and more than all, because he refuses to tell where he was Tuesday night.”

“But that’s just the point, Burroughs. A man who’ll commit murder would fix up his alibi first of all. He would know that his refusal to tell his whereabouts would be extremely suspicious. No, to my mind it’s Hall’s refusal to tell that stamps him as innocent.”

“Then, in that case, it’s the cleverest kind of an alibi he could invent, for it stamps him innocent at once.”

“Oh, come, now, that’s going pretty far; but I will say, Burroughs, that you haven’t the least shred of proof against Hall, and you know it. Prejudice and unfounded suspicion and even a strong desire that he should be the villain, are all very well. But they won’t go far as evidence in a court of law.”

I was forced to admit that Parmalee was right, and that so far I had no proof whatever that Gregory Hall was at all implicated in Mr. Crawford’s death. To be sure he might have worn a yellow rose, and he might have brought the late newspaper, but there was no evidence to connect him with those clues, and too, there was the gold bag. It was highly improbable that that should have been brought to the office and left there by a man.

However, I persuaded Parmalee to agree not to carry the matter to Mr. Goodrich until I had had one more interview with Miss Lloyd, and I promised to undertake that the next morning.

After Parmalee had gone, I indulged in some very gloomy reflections. Everything seemed to point one way. Every proof, every suspicion and every hint more or less implicated Miss Lloyd.

But the more I realized this, the more I determined to do all I could for her, and as to do this, I must gain her confidence, and even liking, I resolved to approach the subject the next day with the utmost tactfulness and kindliness, hoping by this means to induce the truth from her.

The next morning I started on my mission with renewed hopefulness. Reaching the Crawford house, I asked for Miss Lloyd, and I was shown into a small parlor to wait for her. It was a sort of morning room, a pretty little apartment that I had not been in before; and it was so much more cheerful and pleasant than the stately library, I couldn’t help hoping that Miss Lloyd, too, would prove more amenable than she had yet been.

She soon came in, and though I was beginning to get accustomed to the fact that she was a creature of variable moods, I was unprepared for this one. Her hauteur had disappeared; she was apparently in a sweet and gentle frame of mind. Her large dark eyes were soft and gentle, and though her red lips quivered, it was not with anger or disdain as they had done the day before. She wore a plain white morning gown, and a long black necklace of small beads. The simplicity of this costume suited her well, and threw into relief her own rich coloring and striking beauty.

She greeted me more pleasantly than she had ever done before, and I couldn’t help feeling that the cheerful sunny little room had a better effect on her moods than the darker furnishings of the library.

“I wish,” I began, “that we had not to talk of anything unpleasant this morning. I wish there were no such thing as untruth or crime in the world, and that I were calling on you, as an acquaintance, as a friend might call.”

“I wish so, too,” she responded, and as she flashed a glance at me, I had a glimpse of what it might mean to be friends with Florence Lloyd without the ugly shadow between us that now was spoiling our tete-a-tete.

Just that fleeting glance held in it the promise of all that was attractive, charming and delightful in femininity. It was as if the veil of the great, gloomy sorrow had been lifted for a moment, and she was again an untroubled, merry girl. It seemed too, as if she wished that we could be together under pleasanter circumstances and could converse on subjects of less dreadful import. However, all these thoughts that tumultuously raced through my mind, must be thrust aside in favor of the business in hand.

So though I hated to, I began at once.

“I am sorry, Miss Lloyd, to doubt your word, but I want to tell you myself rather than to have you learn it from others that I have a witness who has testified to your presence in your uncle’s office that fateful Tuesday night, although you have said you didn’t go down there.”

As I had feared, the girl turned white and shivered as if with a dreadful apprehension.

“Who is the witness?” she said.

I seemed to read her mind, and I felt at once that to her, the importance of what I had said depended largely on my answer to this question, and I paused a moment to think what this could mean. And then it flashed across me that she was afraid I would say the witness was Gregory Hall. I became more and more convinced that she was shielding Hall, and I felt sure that when she learned it was not he, she would feel relieved. However, I had promised Louis not to let her know that he had told me of seeing her, unless it should be necessary.

“I think I won’t tell you that; but since you were seen in the office at about eleven o’clock, will you not tell me, – I assure you it is for your own best interests, – what you were doing there, and why you denied being there?”

“First tell me the name of your informer;” and so great was her agitation that she scarcely breathed the words.

“I prefer not to do so, but I may say it is a reliable witness and one who gave his evidence most unwillingly.”

“Well, if you will not tell me who he was, will you answer just one question about him? Was it Mr. Hall?”

“No; it was not Mr. Hall.”

As I had anticipated, she showed distinctly her relief at my answer. Evidently she dreaded to hear Hall’s name brought into the conversation.

“And now, Miss Lloyd, I ask you earnestly and with the best intent, please to tell me the details of your visit to Mr. Crawford that night in his office.”

She sat silent for a moment, her eyes cast down, the long dark lashes lying on her pale cheeks. I waited patiently, for I knew she was struggling with a strong emotion of some sort, and I feared if I hurried her, her gentle mood would disappear, and she might again become angry or haughty of demeanor.

At last she spoke. The dark lashes slowly raised, and she seemed even more gentle than at first.

“I must tell you,” she said. “I see I must. But don’t repeat it, unless it is necessary. Detectives have to know things, but they don’t have to tell them, do they?”

“We never repeat confidences, Miss Lloyd,” I replied, “except when necessary to further the cause of right and justice.”

“Truly? Is that so?”

She brightened up so much that I began to hope she had only some trifling matter to tell of.

“Well, then,” she went on, “I will tell you, for I know it need not be repeated in the furtherance of justice. I did go down to my uncle’s office that night, after Mrs. Pierce had been to my room; and it was I – it must have been I – who dropped those rose petals.”

“And left the bag,” I suggested.

“No,” she said, and her face looked perplexed, but not confused. “No, the bag is not mine, and I did not leave it there. I know nothing of it, absolutely nothing. But I did go to the office at about eleven o’clock. I had a talk with my uncle, and I left him there a half-hour later – alive and well as when I went in.”

“Was your conversation about your engagement?”

“Yes.”

“Was it amicable?”

“No, it was not! Uncle Joseph was more angry than I had ever before seen him. He declared he intended to make a new will the next morning, which would provide only a small income for me. He said this was not revenge or punishment for my loyalty to Mr. Hall, but – but – “

“But what?” I urged gently.

“It scarcely seems loyal to Mr. Hall for me to say it,” she returned, and the tears were in her eyes. “But this is all confidential. Well, Uncle Joseph said that Gregory only wanted to marry me for my fortune, and that the new will would prove this. Of course I denied that Mr. Hall was so mercenary, and then we had a good deal of an altercation. But it was not very different from many discussions we had had on the same subject, only Uncle was more decided, and said he had asked Mr. Randolph to come the next morning and draw up the new will. I left him still angry – he wouldn’t even say good-night to me – and now I blame myself for not being more gentle, and trying harder to make peace. But it annoyed me to have him call Gregory mercenary – “

“Because you knew it was true,” I said quietly.

She turned white to the very lips. “You are unnecessarily impertinent,” she said.

“I am,” I agreed. “I beg your pardon.” But I had discovered that she did realize her lover’s true nature.

“And then you went to your room, and stayed there?” I went on, with a meaning emphasis on the last clause.

“Yes,” she said; “and so, you see, what I have told you casts no light on the mystery. I only told you so as to explain the bits of the yellow rose. I feared, from what you said, that Mr. Hall’s name might possibly be brought into discussion.”

“Why, he was not in West Sedgwick that night,” I said.

“Where was he?” she countered quickly.

“I don’t know. He refuses to tell. Of course you must see that his absolute refusal to tell where he was that night is, to say the least, an unwise proceeding.”

“He won’t even tell me where he was,” she said, sighing. “But it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t here.”

“That’s just it,” I rejoined. “If he was not here, it would be far better for him to tell where he really was. For the refusal to tell raises a question that will not be downed, except by an alibi. I don’t want to be cruel, Miss Lloyd, but I must make you see that as the inquiry proceeds, the actions of both Mr. Hall and yourself will be subjected to very close scrutiny, and though perhaps undue attention will be paid to trifles, yet the trifles must be explained.”

I was so sorry for the girl, that, in my effort not to divulge my too great sympathy, I probably used a sterner tone than I realized.

At any rate, I had wakened her at last to a sense of the danger that threatened her and her lover, and now, if she would let me, I would do all in my power to save them both. But I must know all she could tell me.

“When did Mr. Hall leave you?” I asked.

“You mean the day – last Tuesday?”

“Yes?”

“He left here about half-past five. He had been in the office with Uncle Joseph all the afternoon, and at five o’clock he came in here for a cup of tea with me. He almost always comes in at tea-time. Then he left about half-past five, saying he was going to New York on the six o’clock train.”

“For what purpose?”

“I never ask him questions like that. I knew he was to attend to some business for Uncle the next day, but I never ask him what he does evenings when he is in the city, or at any time when he is not with me.”

“But surely one might ask such questions of the man to whom she is betrothed.”

Miss Lloyd again put on that little air of hauteur which always effectually stopped my “impertinence.”

“It is not my habit,” she said. “What Gregory wishes me to know he tells me of his own accord.”

XIV

MR. PORTER’S VIEWS

I began on a new tack.

“Miss Lloyd, why did you tell an untruth, and say you did not come down-stairs again, after going up at ten o’clock?”

Her hauteur disappeared. A frightened, appealing look came into her eyes, and she looked to me like a lovely child afraid of unseen dangers.

“I was afraid,” she confessed. “Yes, truly, I was afraid that they would think I had something to do with the – with Uncle Joseph’s death. And as I didn’t think it could do any good to tell of my little visit to him, I just said I didn’t come down. Oh, I know it was a lie – I know it was wicked – but I was so frightened, and it was such an easy way out of it, just to deny it.”

“And why have you confessed it to me now?”

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“I told you why,” she said: “so you would know where the rose leaves came from, and not suspect Gregory.”

“Do you suspect him?”

“N-no, of course not. But others might.”

It is impossible to describe the dismay that smote my heart at the hesitation of this answer. It was more than hesitation. It was a conflict of unspoken impulses, and the words, when they were uttered, seemed to carry hidden meanings, and to my mind they carried the worst and most sinister meaning conceivable.

To me, it seemed to point unmistakably to collusion between Florence Lloyd, whom I already loved, and Gregory Hall, whom I already distrusted and disliked. Guilty collusion between these two would explain everything. Theirs the motive, theirs the opportunity, theirs the denials and false witnessing. The gold bag, as yet, remained unexplained, but the yellow rose petals and the late newspaper could be accounted for if Hall had come out on the midnight train, and Florence had helped him to enter and leave the house unseen.

Bah! it was impossible. And, any way, the gold bag remained as proof against this horrid theory. I would pin my faith 1o the gold bag, and through its presence in the room, I would defy suspicions of the two people I had resolved to protect.

“What do you think about the gold bag?” I asked.

“I don’t know what to think. I hate to accuse Uncle Joseph of such a thing, but it seems as if some woman friend of his must have come to the office after I left. The long French windows were open – it was a warm night, you know – and any one could have come and gone unseen.”

“The bag wasn’t there when you were there?”

“I’m sure it was not! That is, not in sight, and Uncle Joseph was not the sort of man to have such a thing put away in his desk as a souvenir, or for any other reason.”

“Forgive the insinuation, but of course you could not know positively that Mr. Crawford would not have a feminine souvenir in his desk.”

She looked up surprised. “Of course I could not be positive,” she said, “but it is difficult to imagine anything sentimental connected with Uncle Joseph.”

She almost smiled as she said this, for apparently the mere idea was amusing, and I had a flashing glimpse of what it must be to see Florence Lloyd smile! Well it should not be my fault, or due to my lack of exertion, if the day did not come when she should smile again, and I promised myself I should be there to see it. But stifling these thoughts, I brought my mind back to duty. Drawing from my pocket the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford’s desk, I showed it to her.

“In Uncle’s desk!” she exclaimed. “This does surprise me. I had no idea Uncle Joseph had received a photograph from a lady with an affectionate message, too. Are you quite sure it belonged to him.?”

“I only know that we found it in his desk, hidden beneath some old letters and papers.”

“Were the letters from this lady?”

“No; in no case could we find a signature that agreed with these initials.”

“Here’s your chance, Mr. Burroughs,” and again Florence Lloyd’s dimples nearly escaped the bondage which held them during these sad days. “If you’re a detective, you ought to gather at once from this photograph and signature all the details about this lady; who she is, and what she had to do with Uncle Joseph.”

“I wish I could do so,” I replied, “but you see, I’m not that kind of detective. I have a friend, Mr. Stone, who could do it, and would tell you, as you say, everything about that lady, merely by looking at her picture.”

As a case in point, I told her then and there the story of Fleming Stone’s wonderful deductions from the pair of muddy shoes we had seen in a hotel one morning.

“But you never proved that it was true?” she asked, her dark eyes sparkling with interest, and her face alight with animation.

“No, but it wasn’t necessary. Stone’s deductions are always right, and if not, you know it is the exception that proves the rule.”

“Well, let us try to deduce a little from this picture. I don’t believe for a moment, that Uncle Joseph had a romantic attachment for any lady, though these words on the back of the picture do seem to indicate it.”

“Well, go on,” said I, so carried away by the fascination of the girl, when she had for a moment seemed to forget her troubles, that I wanted to prolong the moment. “Go ahead, and see what inferences you can draw from the photograph.”

“I think she is about fifty years old,” Florence began, “or perhaps fifty-five. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t presume to guess a lady’s age,” I returned, “and beside, I want you to try your powers on this. You may be better at deductions than I am. I have already confessed to you my inability in that direction.”

“Well,” she went on, “I think this lady is rather good-looking, and I think she appreciates the fact.”

“The first is evident on the face of it, and the second is a universal truth, so you haven’t really deduced much as yet.”

“No, that’s so,” and she pouted a little. “But at any rate, I can deduce more about her dress than you can. The picture was taken, or at least that costume was made, about a year ago, for that is the style that was worn then.”

“Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous!”

She flashed me a glance of understanding and appreciation, but undaunted, went on: “The gown also was not made by a competent modiste, but was made by a dressmaker in the house, who came in by the day. The lady is of an economical turn of mind, because the lace yoke of the gown is an old one, and has even been darned to make it presentable to use in the new gown.”

“Now that is deduction,” I said admiringly; “the only trouble is, that it doesn’t do us much good. Somehow I can’t seem to fancy this good-looking, economical, middle-aged lady, who has her dressmaking done at home, coming here in the middle of the night and killing Mr. Crawford.”

“No, I can’t, either,” said Florence gravely; “but then, I can’t imagine any one else doing that, either. It seems like a horrible dream, and I can’t realize that it really happened to Uncle Joseph.”

“But it did happen, and we must find the guilty person. I think with you, that this photograph is of little value as a clue, and yet it may turn out to be. And yet I do think the gold bag is a clue. You are quite sure it isn’t yours?”

Perhaps it was a mean way to put the question, but the look of indignation she gave me helped to convince me that the bag was not hers.

“I told you it was not,” she said, “but,” and her eyes fell, “since I have confessed to one falsehood, of course you cannot believe my statement.”

“But I do believe it,” I said, and I did, thoroughly.

“At any rate, it is a sort of proof,” she said, smiling sadly, “that any one who knows anything about women’s fashions can tell you that it is not customary to carry a bag of that sort when one is in the house and in evening dress. Or rather, in a negligee costume, for I had taken off my evening gown and wore a tea-gown. I should not think of going anywhere in a tea-gown, and carrying a gold bag.”

The girl had seemingly grown almost lighthearted. Her speech was punctuated by little smiles, and her half sad, half gay demeanor bewitched me. I felt sure that what little suggestion of lightheartedness had come into her mood had come because she had at last confessed the falsehood she had told, and her freed conscience gave her a little buoyancy of heart.

But there were still important questions to be asked, so, though unwillingly, I returned to the old subject.

“Did you see your uncle’s will while you were there?”

“No; he talked about it, but did not show it to me.”

“Did he talk about it as if it were still in his possession?”

“Why, yes; I think so. That is, he said he would make a new one unless I gave up Gregory. That implied that the old one was still in existence, though he didn’t exactly say so.”

“Miss Lloyd, this is important evidence. I must tell you that I shall be obliged to repeat much of it to the district attorney. It seems to me to prove that your uncle did not himself destroy the will.”

“He might have done so after I left him.”

“I can’t think it, for it is not in scraps in the waste-basket, nor are there any paper-ashes in the grate.”

“Well, then,” she rejoined, “if he didn’t destroy it, it may yet be found.”

“You wish that very much?” I said, almost involuntarily.

“Oh, I do!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “Not so much for myself as – “

She paused, and I finished the sentence for her “For Mr. Hall.”

She looked angry again, but said nothing.

“Well, Miss Lloyd,” I said, as I rose to go, “I am going to do everything in my power in your behalf and in behalf of Mr. Hall. But I tell you frankly, unless you will both tell me the truth, and the whole truth, you will only defeat my efforts, and work your own undoing.”

I had to look away from her as I said this, for I could not look on that sweet face and say anything even seemingly harsh or dictatorial.

Her lip quivered. “I will do my best,” she said tremblingly. “I will try to make Mr. Hall tell where he was that night. I will see you again after I have talked with him.”

More collusion! I said good-by rather curtly, I fear, and went quickly away from that perilous presence.

Truly, a nice detective, I! Bowled over by a fair face, I was unable to think clearly, to judge logically, or to work honestly!

Well, I would go home and think it out by myself. Away from her influence I surely would regain my cool-headed methods of thought.

When I reached the inn, I found Mr. Lemuel Porter there waiting for me.

“How do you do, Mr. Burroughs?” he said pleasantly. “Have you time for a half-hour’s chat?”

It was just what I wanted. A talk with this clear-thinking man would help me, indeed, and I determined to get his opinions, even as I was ready to give him mine.

“Well, what do you think about it all?” I inquired, after we were comfortably settled at a small table on the shaded veranda, which was a popular gathering-place at this hour. But in our corner we were in no danger from listening ears, and I awaited his reply with interest.

His eyes smiled a little, as he said

“You know the old story of the man who said he wouldn’t hire a dog and then do his own barking. Well, though I haven’t ‘hired’ you, I would be quite ready to pay your honorarium if you can ferret out our West Sedgwick mystery. And so, as you are the detective in charge of the case, I ask you, what do you think about it all?”

But I was pretty thoroughly on my guard now.

“I think,” I began, “that much hinges on the ownership of that gold bag.”

“And you do not think it is Miss Lloyd’s?”

“I do not.”

“It need not incriminate her, if it were hers,” said Mr. Porter, meditatively knocking the ash from said his cigar. “She might have left it in the office at any time previous to the day of the crime. Women are always leaving such things about. I confess it does not seem to me important.”

“Was it on Mr. Crawford’s desk when you were there?” I asked suddenly.

He looked up at me quickly, and again that half-smile came into his eyes.

“Am I to be questioned?” he said. “Well, I’ve no objections, I’m sure. No, I do not think it was there when I called on Mr. Crawford that evening. But I couldn’t swear to this, for I am not an observant man, and the thing might have lain there in front of me and never caught my eye. If I had noticed it, of course I should have thought it was Florence’s.”

“But you don’t think so now, do you?”

“No; I can’t say I think so. And yet I can imagine a girl untruthfully denying ownership under such circumstances.”

I started at this. For hadn’t Miss Lloyd untruthfully denied coming down-stairs to talk to her uncle?

“But,” went on Mr. Porter, “if the bag is not Florence’s, then I can think of but one explanation for its presence there.”

“A lady visitor, late at night,” I said slowly.

“Yes,” was the grave reply; “and though such an occurrence might have been an innocent one, yet, taken in connection with the crime, there is a dreadful possibility.”

“Granting this,” I suggested, “we ought to be able to trace the owner of the bag.”