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The Gold Bag

by Carolyn Wells · English · Gutenberg #2883 · 382,331 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Gold Bag

Author: Carolyn Wells


        
Release date: October 1, 2001 [eBook #2883]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLD BAG ***




Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer





THE GOLD BAG

By Carolyn Wells



CONTENTS



CHAPTER


I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK

II. THE CRAWFORD HOUSE

III. THE CORONER'S JURY

IV. THE INQUEST

V. FLORENCE LLOYD

VI. THE GOLD BAG

VII. YELLOW ROSES

VIII. FURTHER INQUIRY

IX. THE TWELFTH ROSE

X. THE WILL

XI. LOUIS'S STORY

XII. LOUIS'S CONFESSION

XIII. MISS LLOYD'S CONFIDENCE

XIV. MR. PORTER'S VIEWS.

XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH EXPLAINED

XVI. A CALL ON MRS. PURVIS

XVII. THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG

XVIII. IN MR. GOODRICH'S OFFICE

XIX. THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN

XX. FLEMING STONE

XXI. THE DISCLOSURE





THE GOLD BAG




I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK


Though a young detective, I am not entirely an inexperienced one, and
I have several fairly successful investigations to my credit on the
records of the Central Office.

The Chief said to me one day: “Burroughs, if there's a mystery to be
unravelled; I'd rather put it in your hands than to trust it to any
other man on the force.

“Because,” he went on, “you go about it scientifically, and you
never jump at conclusions, or accept them, until they're indubitably
warranted.”

I declared myself duly grateful for the Chief's kind words, but I was
secretly a bit chagrined. A detective's ambition is to be, considered
capable of jumping at conclusions, only the conclusions must always
prove to be correct ones.

But though I am an earnest and painstaking worker, though my habits are
methodical and systematic, and though I am indefatigably patient and
persevering, I can never make those brilliant deductions from seemingly
unimportant clues that Fleming Stone can. He holds that it is nothing
but observation and logical inference, but to me it is little short of
clairvoyance.

The smallest detail in the way of evidence immediately connotes in his
mind some important fact that is indisputable, but which would never
have occurred to me. I suppose this is largely a natural bent of his
brain, for I have not yet been able to achieve it, either by study or
experience.

Of course I can deduce some facts, and my colleagues often say I am
rather clever at it, but they don't know Fleming Stone as well as I
do, and don't realize that by comparison with his talent mine is
insignificant.

And so, it is both by way of entertainment, and in hope of learning from
him, that I am with him whenever possible, and often ask him to “deduce”
 for me, even at risk of boring him, as, unless he is in the right mood,
my requests sometimes do.

I met him accidentally one morning when we both chanced to go into a
basement of the Metropolis Hotel in New York to have our shoes shined.

It was about half-past nine, and as I like to get to my office by ten
o'clock, I looked forward to a pleasant half-hour's chat with him. While
waiting our turn to get a chair, we stood talking, and, seeing a pair
of shoes standing on a table, evidently there to be cleaned, I said
banteringly:

“Now, I suppose, Stone, from looking at those shoes, you can deduce all
there is to know about the owner of them.”

I remember that Sherlock Holmes wrote once, “From a drop of water, a
logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without
having seen or heard of one or the other,” but when I heard Fleming
Stone's reply to my half-laughing challenge, I felt that he had outdone
the mythical logician. With a mild twinkle in his eye, but with a
perfectly grave face, he said slowly,

“Those shoes belong to a young man, five feet eight inches high. He does
not live in New York, but is here to visit his sweetheart. She lives in
Brooklyn, is five feet nine inches tall, and is deaf in her left ear.
They went to the theatre last night, and neither was in evening dress.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said I, “as you are acquainted with this man, and know how
he spent last evening, your relation of the story doesn't interest me.”

“I don't know him,” Stone returned; “I've no idea what his name is,
I've never seen him, and except what I can read from these shoes I know
nothing about him.”

I stared at him incredulously, as I always did when confronted by his
astonishing “deductions,” and simply said,

“Tell this little Missourian all about it.”

“It did sound well, reeled off like that, didn't it?” he observed,
chuckling more at my air of eager curiosity than at his own achievement.
“But it's absurdly easy, after all. He is a young man because his shoes
are in the very latest, extreme, not exclusive style. He is five feet
eight, because the size of his foot goes with that height of man, which,
by the way, is the height of nine out of ten men, any way. He doesn't
live in New York or he wouldn't be stopping at a hotel. Besides, he
would be down-town at this hour, attending to business.”

“Unless he has freak business hours, as you and I do,” I put in.

“Yes, that might be. But I still hold that he doesn't live in New York,
or he couldn't be staying at this Broadway hotel overnight, and sending
his shoes down to be shined at half-past nine in the morning. His
sweetheart is five feet nine, for that is the height of a tall girl.
I know she is tall, for she wears a long skirt. Short girls wear short
skirts, which make them look shorter still, and tall girls wear very
long skirts, which make them look taller.”

“Why do they do that?” I inquired, greatly interested.

“I don't know. You'll have to ask that of some one wiser than I. But I
know it's a fact. A girl wouldn't be considered really tall if less than
five feet nine. So I know that's her height. She is his sweetheart, for
no man would go from New York to Brooklyn and bring a lady over here to
the theatre, and then take her home, and return to New York in the early
hours of the morning, if he were not in love with her. I know she lives
in Brooklyn, for the paper says there was a heavy shower there last
night, while I know no rain fell in New York. I know that they were out
in that rain, for her long skirt became muddy, and in turn muddied the
whole upper of his left shoe. The fact that only the left shoe is so
soiled proves that he walked only at her right side, showing that she
must be deaf in her left ear, or he would have walked part of the time
on that side. I know that they went to the theatre in New York, because
he is still sleeping at this hour, and has sent his boots down to be
cleaned, instead of coming down with them on his feet to be shined here.
If he had been merely calling on the girl in Brooklyn, he would have
been home early, for they do not sit up late in that borough. I know
they went to the theatre, instead of to the opera or a ball, for they
did not go in a cab, otherwise her skirt would not have become muddied.
This, too, shows that she wore a cloth skirt, and as his shoes are not
patent leathers, it is clear that neither was in evening dress.”

I didn't try to get a verification of Fleming Stone's assertions;
I didn't want any. Scores of times I had known him to make similar
deductions and in cases where we afterward learned the facts, he was
invariably correct. So, though we didn't follow up this matter, I
was sure he was right, and, even if he hadn't been, it would not have
weighed heavily against his large proportion of proved successes.

We separated then, as we took chairs at some distance from each other,
and, with a sigh of regret that I could never hope to go far along the
line in which Stone showed such proficiency, I began to read my morning
paper.

Fleming Stone left the place before I did, nodding a good-by as
he passed me, and a moment after, my own foot-gear being in proper
condition, I, too, went out, and went straight to my office.

As I walked the short distance, my mind dwelt on Stone's quick-witted
work. Again I wished that I possessed the kind of intelligence that
makes that sort of thing so easy. Although unusual, it is, after all, a
trait of many minds, though often, perhaps, unrecognized and undeveloped
by its owner. I dare say it lies dormant in men who have never had
occasion to realize its value. Indeed, it is of no continuous value to
anyone but a detective, and nine detectives out of ten do not possess
it.

So I walked along, envying my friend Stone his gift, and reached my
office just at ten o'clock as was my almost invariable habit.

“Hurry up, Mr. Burroughs!” cried my office-boy, as I opened the door.
“You're wanted on the telephone.”

Though a respectful and well-mannered boy, some excitement had made him
a trifle unceremonious, and I looked at him curiously as I took up the
receiver.

But with the first words I heard, the office-boy was forgotten, and my
own nerves received a shock as I listened to the message. It was from
the Detective Bureau with which I was connected, and the superintendent
himself was directing me to go at once to West Sedgwick, where a
terrible crime had just been discovered.

“Killed!” I exclaimed; “Joseph Crawford?”

“Yes; murdered in his home in West Sedgwick. The coroner telephoned to
send a detective at once and we want you to go.”

“Of course I'll go. Do you know any more details?”

“No; only that he was shot during the night and the body found this
morning. Mr. Crawford was a big man, you know. Go right off, Mr.
Burroughs; we want you to lose no time.”

Yes; I knew Joseph Crawford by name, though not personally, and I knew
he was a big man in the business world, and his sudden death would mean
excitement in Wall Street matters. Of his home, or home-life, I knew
nothing.

“I'll go right off,” I assured the Chief, and turned away from the
telephone to find Donovan, the office-boy, already looking up trains in
a timetable.

“Good boy, Don,” said I approvingly; “what's the next train to West
Sedgwick, and how long does it take to get there?”

“You kin s'lect the ten-twenty, Mr. Burruz, if you whirl over in a
taxi an' shoot the tunnel,” said Donovan, who was rather a graphic
conversationalist. “That'll spill you out at West Sedgwick 'bout quarter
of 'leven. Was he moidered, Mr. Burruz?”

“So they tell me, Don. His death will mean something in financial
circles.”

“Yessir. He was a big plute. Here's your time-table, Mr. Burruz. When'll
you be back?”

“Don't know, Don. You look after things.”

“Sure! everything'll be took care of. Lemme know your orders when you
have 'em.”

By means of the taxi Don had called and the tunnel route as he had
suggested, I caught the train, satisfied that I had obeyed the Chief's
orders to lose no time.

Lose no time indeed! I was more anxious than any one else could possibly
be to reach the scene of the crime before significant clues were
obliterated or destroyed by bungling investigators. I had had experience
with the police of suburban towns, and I well knew their two principal
types. Either they were of a pompous, dignified demeanor, which covered
a bewildered ignorance, or else they were overzealous and worked with
a misdirected energy that made serious trouble for an intelligent
detective. Of course, of the two kinds I preferred the former, but the
danger was that I should encounter both.

On my way I diverted my mind, and so partly forgot my impatience,
by endeavoring to “deduce” the station or occupation of my fellow
passengers.

Opposite me in the tunnel train sat a mild-faced gentleman, and from the
general, appearance of his head and hat I concluded he was a clergyman.
I studied him unostentatiously and tried to find some indication of the
denomination he might belong to, or the character of his congregation,
but as I watched, I saw him draw a sporting paper from his pocket, and
turning his hand, a hitherto unseen diamond flashed brilliantly from
his little finger. I hastily, revised my judgment, and turning slightly
observed the man who sat next me. Determined to draw only logical
inferences, I scrutinized his coat, that garment being usually highly
suggestive to our best regulated detectives. I noticed that while the
left sleeve was unworn and in good condition, the right sleeve was
frayed at the inside edge, and excessively smooth and shiny on the inner
forearm. Also the top button of the coat was very much worn, and the
next one slightly.

“A-ha!” said I to myself, “I've nailed you, my friend. You're a
desk-clerk, and you write all day long, standing at a desk. The worn top
button rubs against your desk as you stand, which it would not do were
you seated.”

With a pardonable curiosity to learn if I were right, I opened
conversation with the young man. He was not unwilling to respond,
and after a few questions I learned, to my chagrin, that he was a
photographer. Alas for my deductions! But surely, Fleming Stone himself
would not have guessed a photographer from a worn and shiny coat-sleeve.
At the risk of being rudely personal, I made some reference to fashions
in coats. The young man smiled and remarked incidentally, that owing to
certain circumstances he was at the moment wearing his brother's coat.

“And is your brother a desk clerk?” inquired I almost involuntarily:

He gave me a surprised glance, but answered courteously enough, “Yes;”
 and the conversation flagged.

Exultantly I thought that my deduction, though rather an obvious one,
was right; but after another furtive glance at the young man, I realized
that Stone would have known he was wearing another's coat, for it was
the most glaring misfit in every way.

Once more I tried, and directed my attention to a middle-aged,
angular-looking woman, whose strong, sharp-featured face betokened a
prim spinster, probably at the head of a girls' school, or engaged in
some clerical work. However, as I passed her on my way to leave the
train I noticed a wedding-ring on her hand, and heard her say to her
companion, “No; I think a woman's sphere is in her own kitchen and
nursery. How could I think otherwise, with my six children to bring
up?” After these lamentable failures, I determined not to trust much to
deduction in the case I was about to investigate, but to learn actual
facts from actual evidence.

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 tone seemed to me amusingly patronizing.

“Yes, I am Mr. Burroughs,” I said, and I looked at Mr. Monroe with what
I hoped was an expression that would assure him that our stations were
at least equal.

I fear I impressed him but slightly, for he went on to tell me that he
knew of my reputation as a clever detective, and had especially desired
my attendance on this case. This sentiment was well enough, but he still
kept up his air and tone of patronage, which however amused more than
irritated me.

I knew the man by hearsay, though we had never met before; and I
knew that he was of a nature to be pleased with his own prominence
as coroner, especially in the case of so important a man as Joseph
Crawford.

So I made allowance for this harmless conceit on his part, and was even
willing to cater to it a little by way of pleasing him. He seemed to me
a man, honest, but slow of thought; rather practical and serious, and
though overvaluing his own importance, yet not opinionated or stubborn.

“Mr. Burroughs,” he said, “I'm very glad you could get here so promptly;
for the case seems to me a mysterious one, and the value of immediate
investigation cannot be overestimated.”

“I quite agree with you,” I returned. “And now will you tell me the
principal facts, as you know them, or will you depute some one else to
do so?”

“I am even now getting a jury together,” he said, “and so you will be
able to hear all that the witnesses may say in their presence. In the
meantime, if you wish to visit the scene of the crime, Mr. Parmalee will
take you there.”

At the sound of his name, Mr. Parmalee stepped forward and was
introduced to me. He proved to be a local detective, a young man who
always attended Coroner Monroe on occasions like the present; but who,
owing to the rarity of such occasions in West Sedgwick, had had little
experience in criminal investigation.

He was a young man of the type often seen among Americans. He was very
fair, with a pink complexion, thin, yellow hair and weak eyes. His
manner was nervously alert, and though he often began to speak with an
air of positiveness, he frequently seemed to weaken, and wound up his
sentences in a floundering uncertainty.

He seemed to be in no way jealous of my presence there, and indeed spoke
to me with an air of comradeship.

Doubtless I was unreasonable, but I secretly resented this. However I
did not show my resentment and endeavored to treat Mr. Parmalee as a
friend and co-worker.

The coroner had left us together, and we stood in the drawing-room,
talking, or rather he talked and I listened. Upon acquaintance he seemed
to grow more attractive. He was impulsive and jumped at conclusions, but
he seemed to have ideas, though they were rarely definitely expressed.

He told me as much as he knew of the details of the affair and proposed
that we go directly to the scene of the crime.

As this was what I was impatient to do, I consented.

“You see, it's this way,” he said, in a confidential whisper, as we
traversed the long hall: “there is no doubt in any one's mind as to who
committed the murder, but no name has been mentioned yet, and nobody
wants to be the first to say that name. It'll come out at the inquest,
of course, and then--”

“But,” I interrupted, “if the identity of the murderer is so certain,
why did they send for me in such haste?”

“Oh, that was the coroner's doing. He's a bit inclined to the
spectacular, is Monroe, and he wants to make the whole affair as
important as possible.”

“But surely, Mr. Parmalee, if you are certain of the criminal it is very
absurd for me to take up the case at all.”

“Oh, well, Mr. Burroughs, as I say, no name has been spoken yet. And,
too, a big case like this ought to have a city detective on it. Even
if you only corroborate what we all feel sure of, it will prove to the
public mind that it must be so.”

“Tell me then, who is your suspect?”

“Oh, no, since you are here you had better investigate with an
unprejudiced mind. Though you cannot help arriving at the inevitable
conclusion.”

We had now reached a closed door, and, at Mr. Parmalee's tap, were
admitted by the inspector who was in charge of the room.

It was a beautiful apartment, far too rich and elaborate to be
designated by the name of “office,” as it was called by every one who
spoke of it; though of course it was Mr. Crawford's office, as was
shown by the immense table-desk of dark mahogany, and all the other
paraphernalia of a banker's work-room, from ticker to typewriter.

But the decorations of walls and ceilings, the stained glass of the
windows, the pictures, rugs, and vases, all betokened luxurious tastes
that are rarely indulged in office furnishings. The room was flooded
with sunlight. Long French windows gave access to a side veranda, which
in turn led down to a beautiful terrace and formal garden. But all these
things were seen only in a hurried glance, and then my eyes fell on the
tragic figure in the desk chair.

The body had not been moved, and would not be until after the jury had
seen it, and though a ghastly sight, because of a bullet-hole in the
left temple, otherwise it looked much as Mr. Crawford must have looked
in life.

A handsome man, of large physique and strong, stern face, he must have
been surprised, and killed instantly; for surely, given the chance,
he would have lacked neither courage nor strength to grapple with an
assailant.

I felt a deep impulse of sympathy for that splendid specimen of
humanity, taken unawares, without having been given a moment in which to
fight for his life, and yet presumably seeing his murderer, as he seemed
to have been shot directly from the front.

As I looked at that noble face, serene and dignified in its death
pallor, I felt glad that my profession was such as might lead to the
avenging of such a detestable crime.

And suddenly I had a revulsion of feeling against such petty methods as
deductions from trifling clues.

Moreover I remembered my totally mistaken deductions of that very
morning. Let other detectives learn the truth by such claptrap means if
they choose. This case was too large and too serious to be allowed to
depend on surmises so liable to be mistaken. No, I would search for
real evidence, human testimony, reliable witnesses, and so thorough,
systematic, and persevering should my search be, that I would finally
meet with success.

“Here's the clue,” said Parmelee's voice, as he grasped my arm and
turned me in another direction.

He pointed to a glittering article on the large desk.

It was a woman's purse, or bag, of the sort known as “gold-mesh.”
 Perhaps six inches square, it bulged as if overcrowded with some
feminine paraphernalia.

“It's Miss Lloyd's,” went on Parmalee. “She lives here, you know--Mr.
Crawford's niece. She's lived here for years and years.”

“And you suspect her?” I said, horrified.

“Well, you see, she's engaged to Gregory Hall he's Mr. Crawford's
secretary--and Mr. Crawford didn't approve of the match; and so--”

He shrugged his shoulders in a careless fashion, as if for a woman to
shoot her uncle were an everyday affair.

But I was shocked and incredulous, and said so.

“Where is Miss Lloyd?” I asked. “Does she claim ownership of this gold
bag?”

“No; of course not,” returned Parmalee. “She's no fool, Florence Lloyd
isn't! She's locked in her room and won't come out. Been there all the
morning. Her maid says this isn't Miss Lloyd's bag, but of course she'd
say that.”

“Well, that question ought to be easily settled. What's in the bag?”

“Look for yourself. Monroe and I ran through the stuff, but there's
nothing to say for sure whose bag it is.”

I opened the pretty bauble, and let the contents fall out on the desk.

A crumpled handkerchief, a pair of white kid gloves, a little trinket
known as a “vanity case,” containing a tiny mirror and a tinier powder
puff; a couple of small hair-pins, a newspaper clipping, and a few
silver coins were all that rewarded my trouble.

Nothing definite, indeed, and yet I knew if Fleming Stone could look at
the little heap of feminine belongings, he would at once tell the fair
owner's age, height, and weight, if not her name and address.

I had only recently assured myself that such deductions were of little
or no use, and yet, I could not help minutely examining the pretty
trifles lying on the desk. I scrutinized the handkerchief for a monogram
or an initial, but it had none. It was dainty, plain and fine, of sheer
linen, with a narrow hem. To me it indicated an owner of a refined,
feminine type, and absolutely nothing more. I couldn't help thinking
that even Fleming Stone could not infer any personal characteristics of
the lady from that blank square of linen.

The vanity case I knew to be a fad of fashionable women, and had that
been monogrammed, it might have proved a clue. But, though pretty, it
was evidently not of any great value, and was merely such a trifle as
the average woman would carry about.

And yet I felt exasperated that with so many articles to study, I could
learn nothing of the individual to whom they belonged. The gloves were
hopeless. Of a good quality and a medium size, they seemed to tell me
nothing. They were but slightly soiled, and apparently might have been
worn once or twice. They had never been cleaned, as the inside showed
no scrawled hieroglyphics. But all of these conclusions pointed nowhere
save to the average well-groomed American woman.

The hair-pins and the silver money were equally bare of suggestion, but
I hopefully picked up the bit of newspaper.

“Surely this newspaper clipping must throw some light,” I mused, but it
proved to be only the address of a dyeing and cleaning establishment in
New York City.

“This is being taken care of?” I said, and the burly inspector, who up
to now had not spoken, said:

“Yes, sir! Nobody touches a thing in this: room while I'm here. You,
sir, are of course an exception, but no one else is allowed to meddle
with anything.”

This reminded me that as the detective in charge of this case, it was my
privilege--indeed, my duty--to examine the papers and personal effects
that were all about, in an effort to gather clues for future use.

I was ignorant of many important details, and turned to Parmelee for
information.

That young man however, though voluble, was, inclined to talk on only
one subject, the suspected criminal, Miss Florence Lloyd.

“You see, it must be her bag. Because who else could have left it here?
Mrs. Pierce, the only other lady in the house, doesn't carry a youngish
bag like that. She'd have a black leather bag, more likely, or a-- or
a--”

“Well, it really doesn't matter what kind of a bag Mrs. Pierce would
carry,” said I, a little impatiently; “the thing is to prove whether
this is Miss Lloyd's bag or not. And as it is certainly not a matter
of conjecture, but a matter of fact, I think we may leave it for the
present, and turn our attention to other matters.”

I could see that Parmalee was disappointed that I had made no startling
deductions from my study of the bag and its contents, and, partly owing
to my own chagrin at this state of affairs, I pretended to consider the
bag of little consequence, and turned hopefully to an investigation of
the room.

The right-hand upper drawer of the double-pedestalled desk was open.
Seemingly, Mr. Crawford had been engaged with its contents during the
latter moments of his life.

At a glance, I saw the drawer contained exceedingly valuable and
important papers.

With an air of authority, intentionally exaggerated for the purpose of
impressing Parmalee, I closed the drawer, and locked it with the key
already in the keyhole.

This key was one of several on a key-ring, and, taking it from its
place, I dropped the whole bunch in my pocket. This action at once put
me in my rightful place. The two men watching me unconsciously assumed
a more deferential air, and, though they said nothing, I could see that
their respect for my authority had increased.

Strangely enough, after this episode, a new confidence in my own powers
took possession of me, and, shaking off the apathy that had come over me
at sight of that dread figure in the chair, I set methodically to work
to examine the room.

Of course I noted the position of the furniture, the state of the
window-fastenings, and such things in a few moments. The many filing
cabinets and indexed boxes, I glanced at, and locked those that had keys
or fastenings.

The inspector sat with folded hands watching me with interest but saying
nothing. Parmalee, on the other hand, kept up a running conversation,
sometimes remarking lightly on my actions, and again returning to the
subject of Miss Lloyd.

“I can see,” he said, “that you naturally dislike to suspect a woman,
and a young woman too. But you don't know Miss Lloyd. She is haughty
and wilful. And as I told you, nobody has mentioned her yet in this
connection. But I am speaking to you alone, and I have no reason to
mince matters. And you know Florence Lloyd is not of the Crawford
stock. The Crawfords are a fine old family, and not one of them could
be capable of crime. But Miss Lloyd is on the other side of the house,
a niece of Mrs. Crawford; and I've heard that the Lloyd stock is not all
that could be desired. There is a great deal in heredity, and she may
not be responsible...”

I paid little attention to Parmalee's talk, which was thrown at me in
jerky, desultory sentences, and interested me not at all. I went on with
my work of investigation, and though I did not get down on my knees and
examine every square inch of the carpet with a lens, yet I thoroughly
examined all of the contents of the room. I regret to say, however, that
I found nothing that seemed to be a clue to the murderer.

Stepping out on the veranda, I looked for footprints. The “light snow”
 usually so helpful to a detective had not fallen, as it was April, and
rather warm for the season. But I found many heel marks, apparently of
men's boots; yet they were not necessarily of very recent date, and I
don't think much of foot-print clues, anyhow.

Then I examined the carpet, or, rather, the several rugs which
ornamented the beautiful polished floor.

I found nothing but two petals of a pale yellow rose. They were
crumpled, but not dry or withered, and could not have been long detached
from the blossom on which they grew.

Parmalee chanced to have his back toward me as I spied them, and
I picked them up and put them away in my pocket-book without his
knowledge. If the stolid inspector saw me, he made no sign. Indeed,
I think he would have said nothing if I had carried off the big desk
itself. I looked round the room for a bouquet or vase of flowers from
which the petals might have fallen, but none was there.

This far I had progressed when I heard steps in the hall, and a moment
later the coroner ushered the six gentlemen of his jury into the room.




III. THE CORONER'S JURY


It was just as the men came in at the door, that I chanced to notice a
newspaper that lay on a small table. I picked it up with an apparent air
of carelessness, and, watching my chance, unobserved by Parmalee, I put
the paper away in a drawer, which I locked.

The six men, whom Coroner Monroe named over to me, by way of a brief
introduction, stepped silently as they filed past the body of their late
friend and neighbor.

For the jurymen had been gathered hastily from among the citizens of
West Sedgwick who chanced to be passing; and as it was after eleven
o'clock, they were, for the most part, men of leisure, and occupants of
the handsome homes in the vicinity.

Probably none of them had ever before been called to act on a coroner's
jury, and all seemed impressed with the awfulness of the crime, as well
as imbued with a personal sense of sorrow.

Two of the jurors had been mentioned to me by name, by the coachman
who brought me from the station. Horace Hamilton and Lemuel Porter were
near-by neighbors of the murdered man, and; I judged from their remarks,
were rather better acquainted with him than were the others.

Mr. Hamilton was of the short, stout, bald-headed type, sometimes called
aldermanic. It was plainly to be seen that his was a jocund nature, and
the awe which he felt in this dreadful presence of death, though clearly
shown on his rubicund face, was evidently a rare emotion with him.
He glanced round the room as if expecting to see everything there
materially changed, and though he looked toward the figure of Mr.
Crawford now and then, it was with difficulty, and he averted his
eyes as quickly as possible. He was distinctly nervous, and though
he listened to the remarks of Coroner Monroe and the other jurors, he
seemed impatient to get away.

Mr. Porter, in appearance, was almost the exact reverse of Mr. Hamilton.
He was a middle-aged man with the iron gray hair and piercing dark eyes
that go to make up what is perhaps the handsomest type of Americans. He
was a tall man, strong, lean and sinewy, with a bearing of dignity and
decision. Both these men were well-dressed to the point of affluence,
and, as near neighbor and intimate friends of the dead man, they seemed
to prefer to stand together and a little apart from the rest.

Three more of the jurors seemed to me not especially noticeable in any
way. They looked as one would expect property owners in West Sedgwick to
look. They listened attentively to what Mr. Monroe said, asked few or no
questions, and seemed appalled at the unusual task they had before them.

Only one juror impressed me unpleasantly. That was Mr. Orville, a
youngish man, who seemed rather elated at the position in which he found
himself. He fingered nearly everything on the desk; he peered carefully
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.”

“To my mind,” I put in, “detective divination is merely minute
observation. But why do we quibble over words and definitions when there
is much work to be done? When is the formal inquest to be held, Mr.
Monroe?”

“This afternoon at two o'clock,” he replied.

“Then I'll go away now,” I said, “for I must find an abiding place for
myself in West Sedgwick. There is an inn, I suppose.”

“They'll probably ask you to stay here,” observed Coroner Monroe, “but
I advise you not to do so. I think you'll be freer and less hampered in
your work if you go to the inn.”

“I quite agree with you,” I replied. “But I see little chance of being
invited to stay here. Where is the family? Who are in it?”

“Not many. There is Miss Florence Lloyd, a niece of Mr. Crawford. That
is, she is the niece of his wife. Mrs. Crawford has been dead many
years, and Miss Lloyd has kept house for her uncle all that time. Then
there is Mrs. Pierce, an elderly lady and a distant relative of Mr.
Crawford's. That is all, except the secretary, Gregory Hall, who lives
here much of the time. That is, he has a room here, but often he is in
New York or elsewhere on Mr. Crawford's business.”

“Mr. Crawford had an office both here and in New York?” I asked.

“Yes; and of late years he has stayed at home as much as possible.
He went to New York only about three or four days in the week, and
conducted his business from here the rest of the time. Young Hall is a
clever fellow, and has been Mr. Crawford's righthand man for years.”

“Where is he now?”

“We think he's in New York, but haven't yet been able to locate him
at Mr. Crawford's office there, or at his club. He is engaged to Miss
Lloyd, though I understand that the engagement is contrary to Mr.
Crawford's wishes.”

“And where is Miss Lloyd,--and Mrs. Pierce?”

“They are both in their rooms. Mrs. Pierce is prostrated at the tragedy,
and Miss Lloyd simply refuses to make her appearance.”

“But she'll have to attend the inquest?”

“Oh, yes, of course. She'll be with us then. I think I won't say
anything about her to you, as I'd rather you'd see her first with
entirely unprejudiced eyes.”

“So you, too, think Miss Lloyd is implicated?”

“I don't think anything about it, Mr. Burroughs. As coroner it is not my
place to think along such lines.”

“Well, everybody else thinks so,” broke in Parmalee. “And why? Because
there's no one else for suspicion to light on. No one else who by any
possibility could have done the deed.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Parmalee,” said I, “there must be others. They may
not yet have come to our notice, but surely you must admit an intruder
could have come into the room by way of those long, open windows.”

“These speculations are useless, gentlemen,” said Mr. Monroe, with
his usual air of settling the matter. “Cease then, I beg, or at least
postpone them. If you are walking down the avenue, Mr. Parmalee, perhaps
you'll be good enough to conduct Mr. Burroughs to the Sedgwick Arms,
where he doubtless can find comfortable accommodations.”

I thanked Mr. Monroe for the suggestion, but said, straightforwardly
enough, that I was not yet quite ready to leave the Crawford house, but
that I would not detain Mr. Parmalee, for I could myself find my way to
the inn, having noticed it on my drive from the train.

So Parmalee went away, and I was about to return to Mr. Crawford's
office where I hoped to pursue a little uninterrupted investigation.

But Mr. Monroe detained me a moment, to present me to a tall,
fine-looking man who had just come in.

He proved to be Philip Crawford, a brother of Joseph, and I at once
observed a strong resemblance between their two faces.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Burroughs,” he said. “Mr. Monroe tells me
you are a clever and experienced detective, and I trust you can help us
to avenge this dastardly crime. I am busy with some important matters
just now, but later I shall be glad to confer with you, and be of any
help I can in your investigation.”

I looked at Mr. Philip Crawford curiously. Of course I didn't expect him
to give way to emotional grief, but it jarred on me to hear him refer
to his brother's tragic death in such cold tones, and with such a
businesslike demeanor.

However, I realized I did not know the man at all, and this attitude
might be due to his effort in concealing his real feelings.

He looked very like his brother Joseph, and I gathered from the
appearance of both men, and the manner of Philip, that the Crawford
nature was one of repression and self-control. Moreover, I knew nothing
of the sentiments of the two brothers, and it might easily be that they
were not entirely in sympathy.

I thanked him for his offer of help, and then as he volunteered no
further observations, I excused myself and proceeded alone to the
library.

As I entered the great room and closed the door behind me, I was again
impressed by the beauty and luxury of the appointments. Surely Joseph
Crawford must have been a man of fine calibre and refined tastes to
enjoy working in such an atmosphere. But I had only two short hours
before the inquest, and I had many things to do, so for the moment I
set myself assiduously to work examining the room again. As in my first
examination, I did no microscopic scrutinizing; but I looked over the
papers on and in the desk, I noted conditions in the desk of Mr. Hall,
the secretary, and I paid special attention to the position of the
furniture and windows, my thoughts all directed to an intruder from
outside on Mr. Crawford's midnight solitude.

I stepped through the long French window on to the veranda, and after
a thorough examination of the veranda, I went on down the steps to the
gravel walk. Against a small rosebush, just off the walk, I saw a small
slip of pink paper. I picked it up, hardly daring to hope it might be a
clue, and I saw it was a trolley transfer, whose punched holes indicated
that it had been issued the evening before. It might or might not be
important as evidence, but I put it carefully away in my note-book for
later consideration.

Returning to the library I took the newspaper which I had earlier
discovered from the drawer where I had hidden it, and after one more
swift but careful glance round the room, I went away, confident that I
had not done my work carelessly.

I left the Crawford house and walked along the beautiful avenue to the
somewhat pretentious inn bearing the name of Sedgwick Arms.

Here, as I had been led to believe, I found pleasant, even luxurious
accommodations. The landlord of the inn was smiling and pleasant,
although landlord seems an old-fashioned term to apply to the very
modern and up-to-date man who received me.

His name was Carstairs, and he had the genial, perceptive manner of a
man about town.

“Dastardly shame!” he exclaimed, after he had assured himself of my
identity. “Joseph Crawford was one of our best citizens, one of our
finest men. He hadn't an enemy in the world, my dear Mr. Burroughs--not
an enemy! generous, kindly nature, affable and friendly with all.”

“But I understand he frowned on his ward's love affair, Mr. Carstairs.”

“Yes; yes, indeed. And who wouldn't? Young Hall is no fit mate for
Florence Lloyd. He's a fortune-hunter. I know the man, and his only
ambition is the aggrandizement of his own precious self.”

“Then you don't consider Miss Lloyd concerned in this crime?”

“Concerned in crime? Florence Lloyd! why, man, you must be crazy! The
idea is unthinkable!”

I was sorry I had spoken, but I remembered too late that the suspicions
which pointed toward Miss Lloyd were probably known only to those who
had been in the Crawford house that morning. As for the townspeople in
general, though they knew of the tragedy, they knew very little of its
details.

I hastened to assure Mr. Carstairs that I had never seen Miss Lloyd,
that I had formed no opinions whatever, and that I was merely repeating
what were probably vague and erroneous suspicions of mistakenly-minded
people.

At last, behind my locked door, I took from my pocket the newspaper I
had brought from Mr. Crawford's office.

It seemed to me important, from the fact that it was an extra, published
late the night before.

An Atlantic liner had met with a serious accident, and an extra had been
hastily put forth by one of the most enterprising of our evening papers.
I, myself, had bought one of these extras, about midnight; and the
finding of a copy in the office of the murdered man might prove a clue
to the criminal.

I then examined carefully the transfer slip I had picked up on the
Crawford lawn. It had been issued after nine o'clock the evening before.
This seemed to me to prove that the holder of that transfer must have
been on the Crawford property and near the library veranda late last
night, and it seemed to me that this was plain common-sense reasoning,
and not mere intuition or divination. The transfer might have a simple
and innocent explanation, but until I could learn of that, I should hold
it carefully as a possible clue.




IV. THE INQUEST


Shortly before two o'clock I was back at the Crawford house and found
the large library, where the inquest was to be held, already well filled
with people. I took an inconspicuous seat, and turned my attention
first to the group that comprised, without a doubt, the members of Mr.
Crawford's household.

Miss Lloyd--for I knew at a glance the black-robed young woman must be
she--was of a striking personality. Tall, large, handsome, she could
have posed as a model for Judith, Zenobia, or any of the great and
powerful feminine characters in history. I was impressed not so much by
her beauty as by her effect of power and ability. I had absolutely no
reason, save Parmalee's babblings, to suspect this woman of crime, but
I could not rid myself of a conviction that she had every appearance of
being capable of it.

Yet her face was full of contradictions. The dark eyes were haughty,
even imperious; but the red, curved mouth had a tender expression, and
the chin, though firm and decided-looking, yet gave an impression of
gentleness.

On the whole, she fascinated me by the very mystery of her charm, and I
found my eyes involuntarily returning again and again to that beautiful
face.

She was dressed in a black, trailing gown of material which I think is
called China crepe. It fell around her in soft waving folds and lay in
little billows on the floor. Her dark hair was dressed high on her head,
and seemed to form a sort of crown which well suited her regal type. She
held her head high, and the uplift of her chin seemed to be a natural
characteristic.

Good birth and breeding spoke in every phase of her personality, and in
her every movement and gesture. I remembered Parmalee's hint of unworthy
ancestors, and cast it aside as impossible of belief. She spoke seldom,
but occasionally turned to the lady at her side with a few murmured
words that were indubitably those of comfort or encouragement.

Her companion, a gray-haired, elderly lady, was, of course, Mrs. Pierce.
She was trembling with the excitement of the occasion, and seemed to
depend on Florence Lloyd's strong personality and affectionate sympathy
to keep her from utter collapse.

Mrs. Pierce was of the old school of gentlewomen. Her quiet, black gown
with its crepe trimmings, gave, even to my masculine eye an effect of
correct and fashionable, yet quiet and unostentatious mourning garb.

She had what seemed to me a puzzling face. It did not suggest strength
of character, for the soft old cheeks and quivering lips indicated no
strong self-control, and yet from her sharp, dark eyes she now and
again darted glances that were unmistakably those of a keen and positive
personality.

I concluded that hers was a strong nature, but shaken to its foundation
by the present tragedy. There was, without doubt, a great affection
existing between her and Miss Lloyd, and yet I felt that they were not
in each other's complete confidence.

Though, for that matter, I felt intuitively that few people possessed
the complete confidence of Florence Lloyd. Surely she was a wonderful
creature, and as I again allowed myself to gaze on her beautiful face I
was equally convinced of the possibility of her committing a crime and
the improbability of her doing so.

Near these two sat a young man who, I was told, was Gregory Hall, the
secretary. He had been reached by telephone, and had come out from New
York, arriving shortly after I had left the Crawford house.

Mr. Hall was what may be termed the average type of young American
citizens. He was fairly good-looking, fairly well-groomed, and so far
as I could judge from his demeanor, fairly well-bred. His dark hair was
commonplace, and parted on the side, while his small, carefully arranged
mustache was commonplace also. He looked exactly what he was, the
trusted secretary of a financial magnate, and he seemed to me a man
whose dress, manner, and speech would always be made appropriate to the
occasion or situation. In fact, so thoroughly did he exhibit just such
a demeanor as suited a confidential secretary at the inquest of his
murdered employer, that I involuntarily thought what a fine undertaker
he would have made. For, in my experience, no class of men so perfectly
adapt themselves to varying atmospheres as undertakers.

Philip Crawford and his son, an athletic looking young chap, were also
in this group. Young Crawford inherited to a degree the fine appearance
of his father and uncle, and bade fair to become the same kind of a
first-class American citizen as they.

Behind these people, the ones most nearly interested in the procedure,
were gathered the several servants of the house.

Lambert, the butler, was first interviewed.

The man was a somewhat pompous, middle-aged Englishman, and though of
stolid appearance, his face showed what might perhaps be described as an
intelligent stupidity.

After a few formal questions as to his position in the household, the
coroner asked him to tell his own story of the early morning.

In a more clear and concise way than I should have thought the man
capable of, he detailed his discovery of his master's body.

“I came down-stairs at seven this morning,” he said, “as I always do. I
opened the house, I saw the cook a few moments about matters pertaining
to breakfast, and I attended to my usual duties. At about half-past
seven I went to Mr. Crawford's office, to set it in order for the day,
and as I opened the door I saw him sitting in his chair. At first I
thought he'd dropped asleep there, and been there all night, then in a
moment I saw what had happened.”

“Well, what did you do next?” asked the coroner, as the man paused.

“I went in search of Louis, Mr. Crawford's valet. He was just coming
down the stairs. He looked surprised, for he said Mr. Crawford was not
in his room, and his bed hadn't been slept in.”

“Did he seem alarmed?”

“No, sir. Not knowing what I knew, he didn't seemed alarmed. But he
seemed agitated, for of course it was most unusual not finding Mr.
Crawford in his own room.”

“How did Louis show his agitation?” broke in Mr. Orville.

“Well, sir, perhaps he wasn't to say agitated,--he looked more blank,
yes, as you might say, blank.”

“Was he trembling?” persisted Mr. Orville, “was he pale?” and the
coroner frowned slightly at this juror's repeated inquisitiveness.

“Louis is always pale,” returned the butler, seeming to make an effort
to speak the exact truth.

“Then of course you couldn't judge of his knowledge of the matter,” Mr.
Orville said, with an air of one saying something of importance.

“He had no knowledge of the matter, if you mean Mr. Crawford's death,”
 said Lambert, looking disturbed and a little bewildered.

“Tell your own story, Lambert,” said Coroner Monroe, rather crisply.
“We'll hear what Louis has to say later.”

“Well, sir, then I took Louis to the office, and we both saw the--the
accident, and we wondered what to do. I was for telephoning right off
to Doctor Fairchild, but Louis said first we'd better tell Miss Florence
about it.”

“And did you?”

“We went out in the hall, and just then Elsa, Miss Lloyd's maid, was on
the stairs. So we told her, and told her to tell Miss Lloyd, and ask her
for orders. Well, her orders was for us to call up Doctor Fairchild,
and so we did. He came as soon as he could, and he's been in charge ever
since, sir.”

“A straightforward story, clearly told,” observed the coroner, and then
he called upon Louis, the valet. This witness, a young Frenchman, was
far more nervous and excited than the calm-mannered butler, but the gist
of his story corroborated Lambert's.

Asked if he was not called upon to attend his master at bedtime, he
replied,

“Non, M'sieu; when Monsieur Crawford sat late in his library, or his
office, he dismiss me and say I may go to bed, or whatever I like.
Almost alway he tell me that.”

“And he told you this last night?”

“But yes. When I lay out his clothes for dinner, he then tell me so.”

Although the man seemed sure enough of his statements he was evidently
troubled in his mind. It might have been merely that his French nature
was more excitable than the stolid indifference of the English butler.
But at the same time I couldn't help feeling that the man had not
told all he knew. This was merely surmise on my part, and I could not
persuade myself that there was enough ground for it to call it even an
intuition. So I concluded it best to ask no questions of the valet at
present, but to look into his case later.

Parmalee, however, seemed to have concluded differently. He looked at
Louis with an intent gaze as he said, “Had your master said or done
anything recently to make you think he was despondent or troubled in any
way?”

“No, sir,” said the man; but the answer was not spontaneous, and Louis's
eyes rolled around with an expression of fear. I was watching him
closely myself, and I could not help seeing that against his will his
glance sought always Florence Lloyd, and though he quickly averted it,
he was unable to refrain from furtive, fleeting looks in her direction.

“Do you know anything more of this matter than you have told us?”
 inquired the coroner of the witness.

“No, sir,” replied Louis, and this time he spoke as with more certainty.
“After Lambert and I came out of Mr. Crawford's office, we did just
exactly as Lambert has tell you.”

“That's all, Louis.... But, Lambert, one other matter. Tell us all you
know of Mr. Joseph Crawford's movements last evening.”

“He was at dinner, as usual, sir,” said the butler, in his monotonous
drawl. “There were no guests, only the family. After dinner Mr. Crawford
went out for a time. He returned about nine o'clock. I saw him come in,
with his own key, and I saw him go to his office. Soon after Mr. Porter
called.”

“Mr. Lemuel Porter?” asked the coroner.

“Yes, sir,” said the butler; and Mr. Porter, who was one of the jurors,
gravely nodded his head in acquiescence.

“He stayed until about ten, I should say,” went on the butler, and again
Mr. Porter gave an affirmative nod. “I let him out myself,” went on
Lambert, “and soon after that I went to the library to see if Mr.
Crawford had any orders for me. He told me of some household matters he
wished me to attend to to-day, and then he said he would sit up for
some time longer, and I might go to bed if I liked. A very kind and
considerate man, sir, was Mr. Crawford.”

“And did you then go to bed?”

“Yes, sir. I locked up all the house, except the office. Mr. Crawford
always locks those windows himself, when he sits up late. The ladies
had already gone to their rooms; Mr. Hall was away for the night, so
I closed up the front of the house, and went to bed. That's all I know
about the matter, sir--until I came down-stairs this morning.”

“You heard no sound in the night--no revolver shot?”

“No, sir. But my room is on the third floor, and at the other end of the
house, sir. I couldn't hear a shot fired in the office, I'm sure, sir.”

“And you found no weapon of any sort in the office this morning?”

“No, sir; Louis and I both looked for that, but there was none in the
room. Of that I'm sure, sir.”

“That will do, Lambert.”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

“One moment,” said I, wishing to know the exact condition of the house
at midnight. “You say, Lambert, you closed up the front of the house.
Does that mean there was a back door open?”

“It means I locked the front door, sir, and put the chain on. The
library door opening on to the veranda I did not lock, for, as I said,
Mr. Crawford always locks that and the windows in there when he is there
late. The back door I left on the night latch, as Louis was spending the
evening out.”

“Oh, Louis was spending the evening out, was he?” exclaimed Mr. Orville.
“I think that should be looked into, Mr. Coroner. Louis said nothing of
this in his testimony.”

Coroner Monroe turned again to Louis and asked him where he was the
evening before.

The man was now decidedly agitated, but by an effort he controlled
himself and answered steadily enough:

“I have tell you that Mr. Crawford say I may go wherever I like. And so,
last evening I spend with a young lady.”

“At what time did you go out?”

“At half after the eight, sir.”

“And what time did you return?”

“I return about eleven.”

“And did you then see a light in Mr. Crawford's office?”

Louis hesitated a moment. It could easily be seen that he was pausing
only to enable himself to speak naturally and clearly, but it was only
after one of those darting glances at Miss Lloyd that he replied:

“I could not see Mr. Crawford's office, because I go around the other
side of the house. I make my entree by the back door; I go straight to
my room, and I know nothing of my master until I go to his room this
morning and find him not there.”

“Then you didn't go to his room last night on your return?”

“As I pass his door, I see it open, and his light low, so I know he is
still below stair.”

“And you did not pass by the library on your way round the house?”

Louis's face turned a shade whiter than usual, but he said distinctly,
though in a low voice, “No, sir.”

An involuntary gasp as of amazement was heard, and though I looked
quickly at Miss Lloyd, it was not she who had made the sound. It was one
of the maidservants, a pretty German girl, who sat behind Miss Lloyd. No
one else seemed to notice it, and I realized it was not surprising that
the strain of the occasion should thus disturb the girl.

“You heard Louis come in, Lambert?” asked Mr. Monroe, who was conducting
the whole inquiry in a conversational way, rather than as a formal
inquest.

“Yes, sir; he came in about eleven, and went directly to his room.”

The butler stood with folded hands, a sad expression in his eyes, but
with an air of importance that seemed to be inseparable from him, in any
circumstances.

Doctor Fairchild was called as the next witness.

He testified that he had been summoned that morning at about quarter
before eight o'clock. He had gone immediately to Mr. Crawford's house,
was admitted by the butler, and taken at once to the office. He found
Mr. Crawford dead in his chair, shot through the left temple with a
thirty-two calibre revolver.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Lemuel Porter, who, with the other jurors, was
listening attentively to all the testimony. “If the weapon was not
found, how do you know its calibre?”

“I extracted the bullet from the wound,” returned Doctor Fairchild, “and
those who know have pronounced it to be a ball fired from a small pistol
of thirty-two calibre.”

“But if Mr. Crawford had committed suicide, the pistol would have been
there,” said Mr. Porter; who seemed to be a more acute thinker than the
other jurymen.

“Exactly,” agreed the coroner. “That's why we must conclude that Mr.
Crawford did not take his own life.”

“Nor would he have done so,” declared Doctor Fairchild. “I have known
the deceased for many years. He had no reason for wishing to end his
life, and, I am sure, no inclination to do so. He was shot by an alien
hand, and the deed was probably committed at or near midnight.”

“Thus we assume,” the coroner went on, as the doctor finished his simple
statement and resumed his seat, “that Mr. Crawford remained in his
office, occupied with his business matters, until midnight or later,
when some person or persons came into his room, murdered him, and went
away again, without making sufficient noise or disturbance to arouse the
sleeping household.”

“Perhaps Mr. Crawford himself had fallen asleep in his chair,” suggested
one of the jurors,--the Mr. Orville, who was continually taking notes in
his little book.

“It is possible,” said the doctor, as the remark was practically
addressed to him, “but not probable. The attitude in which the body was
found indicates that the victim was awake, and in full possession of his
faculties. Apparently he made no resistance of any sort.”

“Which seems to show,” said the coroner, “that his assailant was not a
burglar or tramp, for in that case he would surely have risen and tried
to put him out. The fact that Mr. Crawford was evidently shot by a
person standing in front of him, seems to imply that that person's
attitude was friendly, and that the victim had no suspicion of the
danger that threatened him.”

This was clear and logical reasoning, and I looked at the coroner in
admiration, until I suddenly remembered Parmalee's hateful suspicion and
wondered if Coroner Monroe was preparing for an attack upon Miss Lloyd.

Gregory Hall was summoned next.

He was self-possessed and even cool in his demeanor. There was a frank
manner about him that pleased me, but there was also a something which
repelled me.

I couldn't quite explain it to myself, but while he had an air of
extreme straightforwardness, there was also an indefinable effect
of reserve. I couldn't help feeling that if this man had anything to
conceal, he would be quite capable of doing so under a mask of great
outspokenness.

But, as it turned out, he had nothing either to conceal or reveal, for
he had been away from West Sedgwick since six o'clock the night before,
and knew nothing of the tragedy until he heard of it by telephone at Mr.
Crawford's New York office that morning about half-past ten. This
made him of no importance as a witness, but Mr. Monroe asked him a few
questions.

“You left here last evening, you say?”

“On the six o'clock train to New York, yes.”

“For what purpose?”

“On business for Mr. Crawford.”

“Did that business occupy you last evening?”

Mr. Hall looked surprised at this question, but answered quietly

“No; I was to attend to the business to-day. But I often go to New York
for several days at a time.”

“And where were you last evening?” pursued the coroner.

This time Mr. Hall looked more surprised still, and said

“As it has no bearing on the matter in hand, I prefer not to answer that
rather personal question.”

Mr. Monroe looked surprised in his turn, and said: “I think I must
insist upon an answer, Mr. Hall, for it is quite necessary that we learn
the whereabouts of every member of this household last evening.”

“I cannot agree with you, sir,” said Gregory Hall, coolly; “my
engagements for last evening were entirely personal matters, in no way
connected with Mr. Crawford's business. As I was not in West Sedgwick
at the time my late employer met his death, I cannot see that my private
affairs need be called into question.”

“Quite so, quite so,” put in Mr. Orville; but Lemuel Porter interrupted
him.

“Not at all so. I agree with Mr. Monroe, that Mr. Hall should frankly
tell us where he spent last evening.”

“And I refuse to do so,” said Mr. Hall, speaking not angrily, but with
great decision.

“Your refusal may tend to direct suspicion toward yourself, Mr. Hall,”
 said the coroner.

Gregory Hall smiled slightly. “As I was out of town, your suggestion
sounds a little absurd. However, I take that risk, and absolutely refuse
to answer any questions save those which relate to the matter in hand.”

Coroner Monroe looked rather helplessly at his jurors, but as none of
them said anything further, he turned again to Gregory Hall.

“The telephone message you received this morning, then, was the first
knowledge you had of Mr. Crawford's death?”

“It was.”

“And you came out here at once?”

“Yes; on the first train I could catch.”

“I am sorry you resent personal questions, Mr. Hall, for I must ask you
some. Are you engaged to Mr. Crawford's niece, Miss Lloyd?”

“I am.”

This answer was given in a low, quiet tone, apparently without emotion
of any kind, but Miss Lloyd showed, a different attitude. At the
words of Gregory Hall, she blushed, dropped her eyes, fingered her
handkerchief nervously, and evinced just such embarrassment as might be
expected from any young woman, in the event of a public mention of her
betrothal. And yet I had not looked for such an exhibition from Florence
Lloyd. Her very evident strength of character would seem to preclude the
actions of an inexperienced debutante.

“Did Mr. Crawford approve of your engagement to his niece?” pursued Mr.
Monroe.

“With all due respect, Mr. Coroner,” said Gregory Hall, in his subdued
but firm way, “I cannot think these questions are relevant or pertinent.
Unless you can assure me that they are, I prefer not to reply.”

“They are both relevant and pertinent to the matter in hand, Mr. Hall;
but I am now of the opinion that they would better be asked of another
witness. You are excused. I now call Miss Florence Lloyd.”




V. FLORENCE LLOYD


A stir was perceptible all through the room as Miss Lloyd acknowledged
by a bow of her beautiful head the summons of the coroner.

The jurors looked at her with evident sympathy and admiration, and I
remembered that as they were fellow-townsmen and neighbors they probably
knew the young woman well, and she was doubtless a friend of their own
daughters.

It seemed as if such social acquaintance must prejudice them in her
favor, and perhaps render them incapable of unbiased judgment, should
her evidence be incriminating. But in my secret heart, I confess, I felt
glad of this. I was glad of anything that would keep even a shadow of
suspicion away from this girl to whose fascinating charm I had already
fallen a victim.

Nor was I the only one in the room who dreaded the mere thought of Miss
Lloyd's connection with this horrible matter.

Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Porter were, I could see, greatly concerned lest
some mistaken suspicion should indicate any doubt of the girl. I could
see by their kindly glances that she was a favorite, and was absolutely
free from suspicion in their minds.

Mr. Orville had not quite the same attitude. Though he looked at Miss
Lloyd admiringly, I felt sure he was alertly ready to pounce upon
anything that might seem to connect her with a guilty knowledge of this
crime.

Gregory Hall's attitude was inexplicable, and I concluded I had yet much
to learn about that young man. He looked at Miss Lloyd critically, and
though his glance could not be called quite unsympathetic, yet it showed
no definite sympathy. He seemed to be coldly weighing her in his own
mental balance, and he seemed to await whatever she might be about to
say with the impartial air of a disinterested judge. Though a stranger
myself, my heart ached for the young woman who was placed so suddenly in
such a painful position, but Gregory Hall apparently lacked any personal
interest in the case.

I felt sure this was not true, that he was not really so unconcerned as
he appeared; but I could not guess why he chose to assume an impassive
mask.

Miss Lloyd had not risen as it was not required of her, and she sat
expectant, but with no sign of nervousness. Mrs. Pierce, her companion,
was simply quivering with agitation. Now and again she would touch Miss
Lloyd's shoulder or hand, or whisper a word of encouragement, or perhaps
wring her own hands in futile despair.

Of course these demonstrations were of little avail, nor did it seem as
if Florence Lloyd needed assistance or support.

She gave the impression not only of general capability in managing her
own affairs, but of a special strength in an emergency.

And an emergency it was; for though the two before-mentioned jurors, who
had been intimate friends of her uncle, were doubtless in sympathy with
Miss Lloyd, and though the coroner was kindly disposed toward her, yet
the other jurors took little pains to conceal their suspicious attitude,
and as for Mr. Parmalee, he was fairly eager with anticipation of the
revelations about to come.

“Your name?” said the corner briefly, as if conquering his own sympathy
by an unnecessarily formal tone.

“Florence Lloyd,” was the answer.

“Your position in this house?”

“I am the niece of Mrs. Joseph Crawford, who died many years ago. Since
her death I have lived with Mr. Crawford, occupying in every respect the
position of his daughter, though not legally adopted as such.”

“Mr. Crawford was always kind to you?”

“More than kind. He was generous and indulgent, and, though not of an
affectionate nature, he was always courteous and gentle.”

“Will you tell us of the last time you saw him alive?”

Miss Lloyd hesitated. She showed no embarrassment, no trepidation; she
merely seemed to be thinking.

Her gaze slowly wandered over the faces of the servants, Mrs. Pierce,
Mr. Philip Crawford, the jurors, and, lastly, dwelt for a moment on the
now anxious, worried countenance of Gregory Hall.

Then she said slowly, but in an even, unemotional voice: “It was last
night at dinner. After dinner was over, my uncle went out, and before he
returned I had gone to my room.”

“Was there anything unusual about his appearance or demeanor at
dinner-time?”

“No; I noticed nothing of the sort.”

“Was he troubled or annoyed about any matter, that you know of?”

“He was annoyed about one matter that has been annoying him for some
time: that is, my engagement to Mr. Hall.”

Apparently this was the answer the coroner had expected, for he nodded
his head in a satisfied way.

The jurors, too, exchanged intelligent glances, and I realized that the
acquaintances of the Crawfords were well informed as to Miss Lloyd's
romance.

“He did not approve of that engagement?” went on the coroner, though he
seemed to be stating a fact, rather than asking a question.

“He did not,” returned Miss Lloyd, and her color rose as she observed
the intense interest manifest among her hearers.

“And the subject was discussed at the dinner table?”

“It was.”

“What was the tenor of the conversation?”

“To the effect that I must break the engagement.”

“Which you refused to do?”

“I did.”

Her cheeks were scarlet now, but a determined note had crept into
her voice, and she looked at her betrothed husband with an air of
affectionate pride that, it seemed to me, ought to lift any man into the
seventh heaven. But I noted Mr. Hall's expression with surprise. Instead
of gazing adoringly at this girl who was thus publicly proving her
devotion to him, he sat with eyes cast down, and frowning--positively
frowning--while his fingers played nervously with his watch-chain.

Surely this case required my closest attention, for I place far more
confidence in deductions from facial expression and tones of the voice,
than from the discovery of small, inanimate objects.

And if I chose to deduce from facial expressions I had ample scope in
the countenances of these two people.

I was particularly anxious not to jump at an unwarrantable conclusion,
but the conviction was forced upon me then and there that these two
people knew more about the crime than they expected to tell. I certainly
did not suspect either of them to be touched with guilt, but I was
equally sure that they were not ingenuous in their testimony.

While I knew that they were engaged, having heard it from both of them,
I could not think that the course of their love affair was running
smoothly. I found myself drifting into idle speculation as to whether
this engagement was more desired by one than the other, and if so, by
which.

But though I could not quite understand these two, it gave me no trouble
to know which I admired more. At the moment, Miss Lloyd seemed to me to
represent all that was beautiful, noble and charming in womanhood,
while Gregory Hall gave me the impression of a man crafty, selfish and
undependable. However, I fully realized that I was theorizing without
sufficient data, and determinedly I brought my attention back to the
coroner's catalogue of questions.

“Who else heard this conversation, besides yourself, Miss Lloyd?”

“Mrs. Pierce was at the table with us, and the butler was in the room
much of the time.”

The purport of the coroner's question was obvious. Plainly he meant that
she might as well tell the truth in the matter, as her testimony could
easily be overthrown or corroborated.

Miss Lloyd deliberately looked at the two persons mentioned. Mrs. Pierce
was trembling as with nervous apprehension, but she looked steadily at
Miss Lloyd, with eyes full of loyalty and devotion.

And yet Mrs. Pierce was a bit mysterious also. If I could read her face
aright, it bore the expression of one who would stand by her friend
whatever might come. If she herself had had doubts of Florence Lloyd's
integrity, but was determined to suppress them and swear to a belief in
her, she would look just as she did now.

On the other hand the butler, Lambert, who stood with folded arms, gazed
straight ahead with an inscrutable countenance, but his set lips and
square jaw betokened decision.

As I read it, Miss Lloyd knew, as she looked, that should she tell an
untruth about that talk at the dinner-table, Mrs. Pierce would repeat
and corroborate her story; but Lambert would refute her, and would state
veraciously what his master had said. Clearly, it was useless to attempt
a false report, and, with a little sigh, Miss Lloyd seemed to resign
herself to her fate, and calmly awaited the coroner's further questions.

But though still calm, she had lost her poise to some degree. The lack
of responsive glances from Gregory Hall's eyes seemed to perplex her.
The eager interest of the six jurymen made her restless and embarrassed.
The coroner's abrupt questions frightened her, and I feared her
self-enforced calm must sooner or later give way.

And now I noticed that Louis, the valet, was again darting those
uncontrollable glances toward her. And as the agitated Frenchman
endeavored to control his own countenance, I chanced to observe that the
pretty-faced maid I had noticed before, was staring fixedly at Louis.
Surely there were wheels within wheels, and the complications of this
matter were not to be solved by the simple questions of the coroner. But
of course this preliminary examination was necessary, and it was from
this that I must learn the main story, and endeavor to find out the
secrets afterward.

“What was your uncle's response when you refused to break your
engagement to Mr. Hall?” was the next inquiry.

Again Miss Lloyd was silent for a moment, while she directed her gaze
successively at several individuals. This time she favored Mr. Randolph,
who was Mr. Crawford's lawyer, and Philip Crawford, the dead man's
brother. After looking in turn at these two, and glancing for a moment
at Philip Crawford's son, who sat by his side, she said, in a lower
voice than she had before used,

“He said he would change his will, and leave none of his fortune to me.”

“His will, then, has been made in your favor?”

“Yes; he has always told me I was to be sole heiress to his estate,
except for some comparatively small bequests.”

“Did he ever threaten this proceeding before?”

“He had hinted it, but not so definitely.”

“Did Mr. Hall know of Mr. Crawford's objection to his suit?”

“He did.”

“Did he know of your uncle's hints of disinheritance?”

“He did.”

“What was his attitude in the matter?”

Florence Lloyd looked proudly at her lover.

“The same as mine,” she said. “We both regretted my uncle's protest, but
we had no intention of letting it stand in the way of our happiness.”

Still Gregory Hall did not look at his fiancee. He sat motionless,
preoccupied, and seemingly lost in deep thought, oblivious to all that
was going on.

Whether his absence from Sedgwick at the time of the murder made him
feel that he was in no way implicated, and so the inquiry held no
interest for him; or whether he was looking ahead and wondering whither
these vital questions were leading Florence Lloyd, I had no means
of knowing. Certainly, he was a man of most impassive demeanor and
marvellous self-control.

“Then, in effect, you defied your uncle?”

“In effect, I suppose I did; but not in so many words. I always tried to
urge him to see the matter in a different light.”

“What was his objection to Mr. Hall as your husband?”

“Must I answer that?”

“Yes; I think so; as I must have a clear understanding of the whole
affair.”

“Well, then, he told me that he had no objection to Mr. Hall,
personally. But he wished me to make what he called a more brilliant
alliance. He wanted me to marry a man of greater wealth and social
position.”

The scorn in Miss Lloyd's voice for her uncle's ambitions was so
unmistakable that it made her whole answer seem a compliment to Mr.
Hall, rather than the reverse. It implied that the sterling worth of
the young secretary was far more to be desired than the riches and rank
advocated by her uncle. This time Gregory Hall looked at the speaker
with a faint smile, that showed appreciation, if not adoration.

But I did not gather from his attitude that he did not adore his
beautiful bride-to-be; I only concluded that he was not one to show his
feelings in public.

However, I couldn't help feeling that I had learned which of the two was
more anxious for the engagement to continue.

“In what way was your uncle more definite in his threat last night, than
he had been heretofore?” the coroner continued.

Miss Lloyd gave a little gasp, as if the question she had been dreading
had come at last. She looked at the inexorable face of the butler, she
looked at Mr. Randolph, and then flashed a half-timid glance at Hall, as
she answered,

“He said that unless I promised to give up Mr. Hall, he would go last
night to Mr. Randolph's and have a new will drawn up.”

“Did he do so?” exclaimed Gregory Hall, an expression almost of fear
appearing on his commonplace face.

Miss Lloyd looked at him, and seemed startled. Apparently his sudden
question had surprised her.

Mr. Monroe paid no attention to Mr. Hall's remark, but said to Miss
Lloyd, “He had made such threats before, had he not?”

“Yes, but not with the same determination. He told me in so many words,
I must choose between Mr. Hall or the inheritance of his fortune.”

“And your answer to this?”

“I made no direct answer. I had told him many times that I had no
intention of breaking my engagement, whatever course he might choose to
pursue.”

Mr. Orville was clearly delighted with the turn things were taking.
He already scented a sensation, and he scribbled industriously in his
rapidly filling note-book.

This habit of his disgusted me, for surely the jurors on this
preliminary inquest could come to their conclusions without a detailed
account of all these conversations.

I also resented the looks of admiration which Mr. Orville cast at the
beautiful girl. It seemed to me that with the exception of Mr. Hamilton
and Mr. Porter, who were family friends, the jurors should have
maintained a formal and impersonal attitude.

Mr. Hamilton spoke directly to Miss Lloyd on the subject.

“I am greatly surprised,” he said, “that Mr. Crawford should take such
a stand. He has often spoken to me of you as his heiress, and to my
knowledge, your engagement to Mr. Hall is not of immediately recent
date.”

“No,” said Miss Lloyd, “but it is only recently that my uncle expressed
his disapprobation so strongly; and last night at dinner was the first
time he positively stated his intention in regard to his will.”

At this Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Porter conversed together in indignant
whispers, and it was quite evident that they did not approve of Mr.
Crawford's treatment of his niece.

Mr. Philip Crawford looked astounded, and also dismayed, which surprised
me, as I had understood that had it not been for Miss Lloyd, he himself
would have been his brother's heir.

Mr. Randolph showed only a lawyer-like, noncommittal expression, and
Gregory Hall, too, looked absolutely impassive.

The coroner grew more alert, as if he had discovered something of
definite import, and asked eagerly,

“Did he do so? Did he go to his lawyer's and make another will?”

Miss Lloyd's cold calm had returned, and seemed to rebuke the coroner's
excited interest.

“I do not know,” she replied. “He went out after dinner, as I have told
you, but I retired to my bedroom before he came home.”

“And you did not come down-stairs again last night?”

“I did not.”

The words were spoken in a clear, even tone; but something made me doubt
their truth. It was not the voice or inflection; there was no hesitation
or stammer, but a sudden and momentary droop of Miss Lloyd's eyelids
seemed to me to give the lie to her words.

I wondered if Gregory Hall had the same thought, for he slowly raised
his own eyes and looked at her steadily for the first time since her
testimony began.

She did not look at him. Instead, she was staring at the butler.
Either she had reason to fear his knowledge, or I was fanciful. With an
endeavor to shake off these shadows of suspicion, I chanced to look
at Parmalee. To my disgust, he was quite evidently gloating over the
disclosures being made by the witness. I felt my anger rise, and I
determined then and there that if suspicion of guilt or complicity
should by any chance unjustly light on that brave and lovely girl, I
would make the effort of my life to clear her from it.

“You did not come down again,” the coroner went on pointedly, “to ask
your uncle if he had changed his will?”

“No, I did not,” she replied, with such a ring of truth in her scornful
voice, that my confidence returned, and I truly believed her.

“Then you were not in your uncle's office last evening at all?”

“I was not.”

“Nor through the day?”

She reflected a moment. “No, nor through the day. It chanced I had no
occasion to go in there yesterday at all.”

At these assertions of Miss Lloyd's, the Frenchman, Louis, looked
greatly disturbed. He tried very hard to conceal his agitation, but
it was not at all difficult to read on his face an endeavor to look
undisturbed at what he heard.

I hadn't a doubt, myself, that the man either knew something that would
incriminate Miss Lloyd, or that they two had a mutual knowledge of some
fact as yet concealed.

I was surprised that no one else seemed to notice this, but the
attention of every one in the room was concentrated on the coroner and
the witness, and so Louis's behavior passed unnoticed.

At this juncture, Mr. Lemuel Porter spoke with some dignity.

“It would seem,” he said, “that this concludes Miss Lloyd's evidence
in the matter. She has carried the narrative up to the point where
Mr. Joseph Crawford went out of his house after dinner. As she herself
retired to her room before his return, and did not again leave her room
until this morning, she can have nothing further to tell us bearing on
the tragedy. And as it is doubtless a most painful experience for her, I
trust, Mr. Coroner, that you will excuse her from further questioning.”

“But wait a minute,” Parmalee began, when Mr Hamilton interrupted
him--“Mr. Porter is quite right,” he said; “there is no reason why Miss
Lloyd should be further troubled in this matter. I feel free to advise
her dismissal from the witness stand, because of my acquaintance and
friendship with this household. Our coroner and most of our jurors
are strangers to Miss Lloyd, and perhaps cannot appreciate as I do the
terrible strain this experience means to her.”

“You're right Hamilton,” said Mr. Philip Crawford; “I was remiss not to
think of it myself. Mr. Monroe, this is not a formal inquest, and in the
interest of kindness and humanity, I ask you to excuse Miss Lloyd from
further questioning for the present.”

I was surprised at the requests of these elderly gentlemen, for though
it seemed to me that Miss Lloyd's testimony was complete, yet it also
seemed as if Gregory Hall were the one to show anxiety that she be
spared further annoyance.

However, Florence Lloyd spoke for herself.

“I am quite willing to answer any further questions,” she said; “I have
answered all you have asked, and I have told you frankly the truth.
Though it is far from pleasant to have my individual affairs thus
brought to notice, I am quite ready to do anything to forward the cause
of justice or to aid in any way the discovery of my uncle's murderer.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Monroe; “I quite appreciate the extreme
unpleasantness of your position. But, Miss Lloyd, there are a few more
questions I must ask you. Pardon me if I repeat myself, but I ask you
once more if you did not come down to your uncle's office last evening
after he had returned from his call on Mr. Randolph.”

As I watched Florence Lloyd I saw that her eyes did not turn toward
the coroner, or toward her fiance, or toward the jury, but she looked
straight at Louis, the valet, as she replied in clear tones,

“I did not.”




VI. THE GOLD BAG


“Is this yours?” asked Mr. Monroe, suddenly whisking into sight the
gold-mesh bag.

Probably his intent had been to startle her, and thus catch her off her
guard. If so, he succeeded, for the girl was certainly startled, if only
at the suddenness of the query.

“N-no,” she stammered; “it's--it's not mine.”

“Are you sure?” the coroner went on, a little more gently, doubtless
moved by her agitation.

“I'm--I'm quite sure. Where did you find it?”

“What size gloves do you wear, Miss Lloyd?”

“Number six.” She said this mechanically, as if thinking of something
else, and her face was white.

“These are number six,” said the coroner, as he took a pair of gloves
from the bag. “Think again, Miss Lloyd. Do you not own a gold-chain bag,
such as this?”

“I have one something like that--or, rather, I did have one.”

“Ah! And what did you do with it?”

“I gave it to my maid, Elsa, some days ago.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I was tired of it, and as it was a trifle worn, I had ceased to
care to carry it.”

“Is it not a somewhat expensive trinket to turn over to your maid?”

“No; they are not real gold. At least, I mean mine was not. It was gilt
over silver, and cost only about twelve or fourteen dollars when new.”

“What did you usually carry in it?”

“What every woman carries in such a bag. Handkerchief, some small
change, perhaps a vanity-box, gloves, tickets--whatever would be needed
on an afternoon's calling or shopping tour.”

“Miss Lloyd, you have enumerated almost exactly the articles in this
bag.”

“Then that is a coincidence, for it is not my bag.”

The girl was entirely self-possessed again, and even a little
aggressive.

I admit that I did not believe her statements. Of course I could not be
sure she was telling untruths, but her sudden embarrassment at the first
sight of the bag, and the way in which she regained her self-possession,
made me doubt her clear conscience in the matter.

Parmalee, who had come over and sat beside me, whispered: “Striking
coincidence, isn't it?”

Although his sarcasm voiced my own thoughts, yet it irritated me
horribly to hear him say it.

“But ninety-nine women out of a hundred would experience the same
coincidence,” I returned.

“But the other ninety-eight weren't in the house last night, and she
was.”

At this moment Mrs. Pierce, whom I had suspected of feeling far deeper
interest than she had so far shown, volunteered a remark.

“Of course that isn't Florence's bag,” she said; “if Florence had gone
to her uncle's office last evening, she would have been wearing her
dinner gown, and certainly would not carry a street bag.”

“Is this a street bag?” inquired Mr. Monroe, looking with a masculine
helplessness at the gilt bauble.

“Of course it is,” said Mrs. Pierce, who now that she had found her
voice, seemed anxious to talk. “Nobody ever carries a bag like that in
the house,--in the evening.”

“But,” began Parmalee, “such a thing might have occurred, if Miss Lloyd
had had occasion to go to her uncle's office with, we will say, papers
or notes.”

Personally I thought this an absurd suggestion, but Mr. Monroe seemed to
take it seriously.

“That might be,” he said, and I could see that momentarily the
suspicions against Florence Lloyd were growing in force and were taking
definite shape.

As I noted the expressions, on the various faces, I observed that only
Mr. Philip Crawford and the jurors Hamilton and Porter seemed entirely
in sympathy with the girl. The coroner, Parmalee, and even the lawyer,
Randolph, seemed to be willing, almost eager for her to incriminate
herself.

Gregory Hall, who should have been the most sympathetic of all, seemed
the most coldly indifferent, and as for Mrs. Pierce, her actions were so
erratic and uncertain, no one could tell what she thought.

“You are quite positive it is not your bag?” repeated the coroner once
more.

“I'm positive it is not mine,” returned Miss Lloyd, without undue
emphasis, but with an air of dismissing the subject.

“Is your maid present?” asked the coroner. “Let her be summoned.”

Elsa came forward, the pretty, timid young girl, of German effects, whom
I had already noticed.

“Have you ever seen this bag before?” asked the coroner, holding it up
before her.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“This morning, sir. Lambert showed it to me, sir. He said he found it in
Mr. Crawford's office.”

The girl was very pale, and trembled pitiably. She seemed afraid of the
coroner, of Lambert, of Miss Lloyd, and of the jury. It might have
been merely the unreasonable fear of an ignorant mind, but it had the
appearance of some more definite apprehension.

Especially did she seem afraid of the man, Louis. Though perhaps the
distressed glances she cast at him were not so much those of fear as of
anxiety.

The coroner spoke kindly to her, and really seemed to take more notice
of her embarrassment, and make more effort to put her at her ease than
he had done with Miss Lloyd.

“Is it Miss Lloyd's bag?”

“I don't think so, sir.”

“Don't you know? As her personal maid, you must be acquainted with her
belongings.”

“Yes, sir. No, it isn't hers, sir.”

But as this statement was made after a swift but noticeable glance of
inquiry at her mistress, a slight distrust of Elsa formed in my own
mind, and probably in the minds of others.

“She has one like this, has she not?”

“She--she did have, sir; but she--she gave it to me.”

“Yes? Then go and get it and let us see it.”

“I haven't it now, sir. I--I gave it away.”

“Oh, you gave it away! To whom? Can you get it back?”

“No, sir; I gave it to my cousin, who sailed for Germany last week.”

Miss Lloyd looked up in surprise, and that look of surprise told against
her. I could see Parmalee's eyes gleam as he concluded in his own mind
that the bag story was all false, was made up between mistress and maid,
and that the part about the departing cousin was an artistic touch added
by Elsa.

The coroner, too, seemed inclined to disbelieve the present witness, and
he sat thoughtfully snapping the catch of the bag.

He turned again to Miss Lloyd. “Having given away your own bag,” he
said suavely, “you have perhaps provided yourself with another, have you
not?”

“Why, no, I haven't,” said Florence Lloyd. “I have been intending to do
so, and shall get one shortly, but I haven't yet selected it.”

“And in the meantime you have been getting along without any?”

“A gold-mesh bag is not an indispensable article; I have several bags of
other styles, and I'm in no especial haste to purchase a new one.”

Miss Lloyd's manner had taken on several degrees of hauteur, and her
voice was incisive in its tone. Clearly she resented this discussion of
her personal belongings, and as she entirely repudiated the ownership of
the bag in the coroner's possession, she was annoyed at his questions.

Mr. Monroe looked at her steadily.

“If this is not your bag, Miss Lloyd,” he said, with some asperity,
“how did it get on Mr. Crawford's desk late last night? The butler has
assured me it was not there when he looked in at a little after ten
o'clock. Yet this morning it lay there, in plain sight on the desk.
Whose bag is it?”

“I have not the slightest idea,” said Miss Lloyd firmly; “but, I repeat,
it is not mine.”

“Easy enough to see the trend of Monroe's questions,” said Parmalee in
my ear. “If he can prove this bag to be Miss Lloyd's, it shows that
she was in the office after ten o'clock last night, and this she has
denied.”

“Don't you believe her?” said I.

“Indeed I don't. Of course she was there, and of course it's her bag.
She put that pretty maid of hers up to deny it, but any one could see
the maid was lying, also.”

“Oh, come now, Parmalee, that's too bad! You've no right to say such
things!”

“Oh, pshaw! you think the same yourself, only you think it isn't
chivalrous to put it into words.”

Of course what annoyed me in Parmalee's speech was its inherent truth. I
didn't believe Florence Lloyd. Much as I wanted to, I couldn't; for the
appearance, manner and words of both women were not such as to inspire
belief in their hearers.

If she and Elsa were in collusion to deny her ownership of the bag, it
would be hard to prove the contrary, for the men-servants could not be
supposed to know, and I had no doubt Mrs. Pierce would testify as Miss
Lloyd did on any matter.

I was sorry not to put more confidence in the truth of the testimony
I was hearing, but I am, perhaps, sceptical by nature. And, too, if
Florence Lloyd were in any way implicated in the death of her uncle, I
felt pretty sure she would not hesitate at untruth.

Her marvellous magnetism attracted me strongly, but it did not blind me
to the strength of her nature. While I could not, as yet, believe her in
any way implicated in the death of her uncle, I was fully convinced she
knew more concerning it than she had told and I knew, unless forced to,
she would not tell what she desired to keep secret.

My sympathy, of course, was with her, but my duty was plain. As a
detective, I must investigate fairly, or give up the case.

At this juncture, I knew the point at issue was the presence of Miss
Lloyd in the office last night, and the two yellow rose petals I had
picked up on the floor might prove a clue.

At any rate it was my duty to investigate the point, so taking a card
from my pocket I wrote upon it: “Find out if Miss Lloyd wore any flowers
last evening, and what kind.”

I passed this over to Mr. Monroe, and rather enjoyed seeing his
mystification as he read it.

To my surprise he did not question Florence Lloyd immediately, but
turned again to the maid.

“At what time did your mistress go to her room last evening?”

“At about ten o'clock, sir. I was waiting there for her, and so I am
sure.”

“Did she at once retire?”

“No, sir. She changed her evening gown for a teagown, and then said she
would sit up for an hour or so and write letters, and I needn't wait.”

“You left her then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Miss Lloyd wear any flowers at dinner last evening?”

“No, sir. There were no guests--only the family.”

“Ah, quite so. But did she, by chance, pin on any flowers after she went
to her room?”

“Why, yes, sir; she did. A box of roses had come for her by a messenger,
and when she found them in her room, she pinned one on the lace of her
teagown.”

“Yes? And what time did the flowers arrive?”

“While Miss Lloyd was at dinner, sir. I took them from the box and put
them in water, sir.”

“And what sort of flowers were they?”

“Yellow roses, sir.”

“That will do, Elsa. You are excused.”

The girl looked bewildered, and a little embarrassed as she returned
to her place among the other servants, and Miss Lloyd looked a little
bewildered also.

But then, for that matter, no body understood the reason for the
questions about the flowers, and though most of the jury merely looked
preternaturally wise on the subject, Mr. Orville scribbled it all
down in his little book. I was now glad to see the man keep up his
indefatigable note-taking. If the reporters or stenographers missed any
points, I could surely get them from him.

But from the industry with which he wrote, I began to think he must be
composing an elaborate thesis on yellow roses and their habits.

Mr. Porter, looking greatly puzzled, observed to the coroner, “I have
listened to your inquiries with interest; and I would like to know what,
if any, special importance is attached to this subject of yellow roses.”

“I'm not able to tell you,” replied Mr. Monroe. “I asked these questions
at the instigation of another, who doubtless has some good reason for
them, which he will explain in due time.”

Mr. Porter seemed satisfied with this, and I nodded my head at the
coroner, as if bidding him to proceed.

But if I had been surprised before at the all but spoken intelligence
which passed between the two servants, Elsa and Louis, I was more amazed
now. They shot rapid glances at each other, which were evidently full
of meaning to themselves. Elsa was deathly white, her lips trembled, and
she looked at the Frenchman as if in terror of her life. But though he
glanced at her meaningly, now and then, Louis's anxiety seemed to me to
be more for Florence Lloyd than for her maid.

But now the coroner was talking very gravely to Miss Lloyd.

“Do you corroborate,” he was saying, “the statements of your maid about
the flowers that were sent you last evening?”

“I do,” she replied.

“From whom did they come?”

“From Mr. Hall.”

“Mr. Hall,” said, the coroner, turning toward the young man, “how could
you send flowers to Miss Lloyd last evening if you were in New York
City?”

“Easily,” was the cool reply. “I left Sedgwick on the six o'clock train.
On my way to the station I stopped at a florist's and ordered some roses
sent to Miss Lloyd. If they did not arrive until she was at dinner, they
were not sent immediately, as the florist promised.”

“When did you receive them, Miss Lloyd?”

“They were in my room when I went up there at about ten o'clock last
evening,” she replied, and her face showed her wonderment at these
explicit questions.

The coroner's face showed almost as much wonderment, and I said:
“Perhaps, Mr. Monroe, I may ask a few questions right here.”

“Certainly,” he replied.

And thus it was, for the first time in my life, I directly addressed
Florence Lloyd.

“When you went up to your room at ten o'clock, the flowers were there?”
 I asked, and I felt a most uncomfortable pounding at my heart because of
the trap I was deliberately laying for her. But it had to be done, and
even as I spoke, I experienced a glad realization, that if she were
innocent, my questions could do her no harm.

“Yes,” she repeated, and for the first time favored me with a look of
interest. I doubt if she knew my name or scarcely knew why I was there.

“And you pinned one on your gown?”

“I tucked it in among the laces at my throat, yes.”

“Miss Lloyd, do you still persist in saying you did not go down-stairs
again, to your uncle's office?”

“I did not,” she repeated, but she turned white, and her voice was
scarce more than a whisper.

“Then,” said I, “how did two petals of a yellow rose happen to be on the
floor in the office this morning?”




VII. YELLOW ROSES


If any one expected to see Miss Lloyd faint or collapse at this crisis
he must have been disappointed, and as I had confidently expected such
a scene, I was completely surprised at her quick recovery of
self-possession.

For an instant she had seemed stunned by my question, and her eyes had
wandered vaguely round the room, as if in a vain search for help.

Her glance returned to me, and in that instant I gave her an answering
look, which, quite involuntarily on my part, meant a grave and serious
offer of my best and bravest efforts in her behalf. Disingenuous she
might be, untruthful she might be, yes, even a criminal she might be,
but in any case I was her sworn ally forever. Not that I meant to defeat
the ends of justice, but I was ready to fight for her or with her, until
justice should defeat us. Of course she didn't know all this, though
I couldn't help hoping she read a little of it as my eyes looked into
hers. If so, she recognized it only by a swift withdrawal of her own
glance. Again she looked round at her various friends.

Then her eyes rested on Gregory Hall, and, though he gave her no
responsive glance, for some reason her poise returned like a flash. It
was as if she had been invigorated by a cold douche.

Determination fairly shone in her dark eyes, and her mouth showed a
more decided line than I had yet seen in its red curves, as with a cold,
almost hard voice she replied,

“I have no idea. We have many flowers in the house, always.”

“But I have learned from the servants that there were no other yellow
roses in the house yesterday.”

Miss Lloyd was not hesitant now. She replied quickly, and it was with an
almost eager haste that she said,

“Then I can only imagine that my uncle had some lady visitor in his
office late last evening.”

The girl's mood had changed utterly; her tone was almost flippant, and
more than one of the jurors looked at her in wonderment.

Mr. Porter, especially, cast an her a glance of fatherly solicitude, and
I was sure that he felt, as I did, that the strain was becoming too much
for her.

“I don't think you quite mean that, Florence,” he said; “you and I knew
your uncle too well to say such things.”

But the girl made no reply, and her beautiful mouth took on a hard line.

“It is not an impossible conjecture,” said Philip Crawford thoughtfully.
“If the bag does not belong to Florence, what more probable than that it
was left by its feminine owner? The same lady might have worn or carried
yellow roses.”

Perhaps it was because of my own desire to help her that these other men
had joined their efforts to mine to ease the way as much as possible.

The coroner looked a little uncomfortable, for he began to note the tide
of sympathy turning toward the troubled girl.

“Yellow roses do not necessarily imply a lady visitor,” he said, rather
more kindly. “A man in evening dress might have worn one.”

To his evident surprise, as well as to my own, this remark, intended to
be soothing, had quite the opposite effect.

“That is not at all probable,” said Miss Lloyd quite angrily. “Mr.
Porter was in the office last evening; if he was wearing a yellow rose
at the time, let him say so.”

“I was not,” said Mr. Porter quietly, but looking amazed at the sudden
outburst of the girl.

“Of course you weren't!” Miss Lloyd went on, still in the same excited
way. “Men don't wear roses nowadays, except perhaps at a ball; and,
anyway, the gold bag surely implies that a woman was there!”

“It seems to,” said Mr. Monroe; and then, unable longer to keep up her
brave resistance, Florence Lloyd fainted.

Mrs. Pierce wrung her hands and moaned in a helpless fashion. Elsa
started forward to attend her young mistress, but it was the two
neighbors who were jurors, Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Porter, who carried the
unconscious girl from the room.

Gregory Hall looked concerned, but made no movement to aid, and I
marvelled afresh at such strange actions in a man betrothed to a
particularly beautiful woman.

Several women in the audience hurried from the room, and in a few
moments the two jurors returned.

“Miss Lloyd will soon be all right, I think,” said Mr. Porter to the
coroner. “My wife is with her, and one or two other ladies. I think we
may proceed with our work here.”

There was something about Mr. Lemuel Porter that made men accept his
dictum, and without further remark Mr. Monroe called the next witness,
Mr. Roswell Randolph, and a tall man, with an intellectual face, came
forward.

While the coroner was putting the formal and preliminary questions
to Mr. Randolph, Parmalee quietly drew my attention to a whispered
conversation going on between Elsa and Louis.

If this girl had fainted instead of Miss Lloyd, I should not have been
surprised for she seemed on the very verge of nervous collapse. She
seemed, too, to be accusing the man of something, which he vigorously
denied. The girl interested me far more than the Frenchman. Though of
the simple, rosy-cheeked type of German, she had an air of canniness and
subtlety that was at variance with her naive effect. I soon concluded
she was far more clever than most people thought, and Parmalee's
whispered words showed that he thought so too.

“Something doing in the case of Dutch Elsa, eh?” he said; “she and
Johnny Frenchy have cooked up something between them.”

“Nothing of any importance, I fancy,” I returned, for Miss Lloyd's
swoon seemed to me a surrender, and I had little hope now of any other
direction in which to look.

But I resumed my attention to the coroner's inquiries of Mr. Randolph.

In answer to a few formal questions, he stated that he had been Mr.
Crawford's legal adviser for many years, and had entire charge of all
such matters as required legal attention.

“Did you draw up the late Mr. Crawford's will?” asked the coroner.

“Yes; after the death of his wife--about twelve years ago.”

“And what were the terms of that will?”

“Except for some minor bequests, the bulk of his fortune was bequeathed
to Miss Florence Lloyd.”

“Have you changed that will in any way, or drawn a later one?”

“No.”

It was by the merest chance that I was looking at Gregory Hall, as the
lawyer gave this answer.

It required no fine perception to understand the look of relief and
delight that fairly flooded his countenance. To be sure, it was quickly
suppressed, and his former mask of indifference and preoccupation
assumed, but I knew as well as if he had put it into words, that he had
trembled lest Miss Lloyd had been disinherited before her uncle had met
his death in the night.

This gave me many newThis gave me many new thoughts, but before I could formulate them, I
heard the coroner going on with his questions.

“Did Mr. Crawford visit you last evening?”

“Yes; he was at my house for perhaps half an hour or more between eight
and nine o'clock.”

“Did he refer to the subject of changing his will?”

“He did. That was his errand. He distinctly stated his intention of
making a new will, and asked me to come to his office this morning and
draw up the instrument.”

“But as that cannot now be done, the will in favor of Miss Lloyd still
stands?”

“It does,” said Mr. Randolph, “and I am glad of it. Miss Lloyd has been
brought up to look upon this inheritance as her own, and while I
would have used no undue emphasis, I should have tried to dissuade Mr.
Crawford from changing his will.”

“But before we consider the fortune or the will, we must proceed with
our task of bringing to light the murderer, and avenging Mr. Crawford's
death.”

“I trust you will do so, Mr. Coroner, and that speedily. But I may
say, if allowable, that you are on the wrong track when you allow your
suspicions to tend towards Florence Lloyd.”

“As your opinion, Mr. Randolph, of course that sentiment has some
weight, but as a man of law, yourself, you must know that such an
opinion must be proved before it can be really conclusive.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Randolph, with a deep sigh. “But let me beg
of you to look further in search of other indications before you press
too hard upon Miss Lloyd with the seeming clues you now have.”

I liked Mr. Randolph very much. Indeed it seemed to me that the men of
West Sedgwick were of a fine class as to both intellect and judgment,
and though Coroner Monroe was not a brilliant man, I began to realize
that he had some sterling qualities and was distinctly just and fair in
his decisions.

As for Gregory Hall, he seemed like a man free from a great anxiety.
Though still calm and reserved in appearance, he was less nervous,
and quietly awaited further developments. His attitude was not hard to
understand. Mr. Crawford had objected to his secretary's engagement to
his niece, and now Mr. Crawford's objections could no longer matter.
Again, it was not surprising that Mr. Hall should be glad to learn that
his fiancee was the heiress she had supposed herself to he. Even though
he were marrying the girl simply for love of her, a large fortune in
addition was by no means to be despised. At any rate, I concluded that
Gregory Hall thought so.

As often happened, Parmalee read my thoughts. “A fortune-hunter,” he
murmured, with a meaning glance at Hall.

I remembered that Mr. Carstairs, at the inn had said the same thing, and
I thoroughly believed it myself.

“Has he any means of his own?”

“No,” said Parmalee, “except his salary, which was a good one from Mr.
Crawford, but of course he's lost that now.”

“I don't feel drawn toward him. I suppose one would call him a gentleman
and yet he isn't manly.”

“He's a cad,” declared Parmalee; “any fortune hunter is a cad, and I
despise him.”

Although I tried to hold my mind impartially open regarding Mr. Hall,
I was conscious of an inclination to despise him myself. But I was also
honest enough to realize that my principal reason for despising him was
because he had won the hand of Florence Lloyd.

I heard Coroner Monroe draw a long sigh.

Clearly, the man was becoming more and more apprehensive, and really
dreaded to go on with the proceedings, because he was fearful of what
might be disclosed thereby.

The gold bag still lay on the table before him; the yellow rose petals
were not yet satisfactorily accounted for; Miss Lloyd's agitation
and sudden loss of consciousness, though not surprising in the
circumstances, were a point in her disfavor. And now the revelation that
Mr. Crawford was actually on the point of disinheriting his niece made
it impossible to ignore the obvious connection between that fact and the
event of the night.

But no one had put the thought into words, and none seemed inclined to.

Mechanically, Mr. Monroe called the next witness on his list, and Mrs.
Pierce answered.

For some reason she chose to stand during her interview, and as she
rose, I realized that she was a prim little personage, but of such
a decided nature that she might have been stigmatized by the term
stubborn. I had seen such women before; of a certain soft, outward
effect, apparently pliable and amenable, but in reality, deep, shrewd
and clever.

And yet she was not strong, for the situation in which she found herself
made her trembling and unstrung.

When asked by the coroner to tell her own story of the events of the
evening before, she begged that he would question her instead.

Desirous of making it as easy for her as possible, Mr. Monroe acceded to
her wishes, and put his questions in a kindly and conversational tone.

“You were at dinner last night, with Miss Lloyd and Mr. Crawford?”

“Yes,” was the almost inaudible reply, and Mrs. Pierce seemed about to
break down at the sad recollection.

“You heard the argument between Mr. Crawford and his niece at the dinner
table?”

“Yes.”

“This resulted in high words on both sides?”

“Well, I don't know exactly what you mean by high words. Mr. Crawford
rarely lost his temper and Florence never.”

“What then did Mr. Crawford say in regard to disinheriting Miss Lloyd?”

“Mr. Crawford said clearly, but without recourse to what may be called
high words, that unless Florence would consent to break her engagement
he would cut her off with a shilling.”

“Did he use that expression?”

“He did at first, when he was speaking more lightly; then when Florence
refused to do as he wished he said he would go that very evening to Mr.
Randolph's and have a new will made which should disinherit Florence,
except for a small annuity.”

“And what did Miss Lloyd reply to this threat?” asked the coroner.

“She said,” replied Mrs. Pierce, in her plaintive tones, “that her uncle
might do as he chose about that; but she would never give up Mr. Hall.”

At this moment Gregory Hall looked more manly than I had yet seen him.

Though he modestly dropped his eyes at this tacit tribute to his
worthiness, yet he squared his shoulders, and showed a justifiable pride
in the love thus evinced for him.

“Was the subject discussed further?” pursued the coroner.

“No; nothing more was said about it after that.”

“Will the making of a new will by Mr. Crawford affect yourself in any
way, Mrs. Pierce?”

“No,” she replied, “Mr. Crawford left me a small bequest in his earlier
will and I had reason to think he would do the same in a later will,
even though he changed his intentions regarding Florence.”

“Miss Lloyd thoroughly believed that he intended to carry out his threat
last evening?”

“She didn't say so to me, but Mr. Crawford spoke so decidedly on the
matter, that I think both she and I believed he was really going to
carry out his threat at last.”

“When Mr. Crawford left the house, did you and Miss Lloyd know where he
was going?”

“We knew no more than he had said at the table. He said nothing when he
went away.”

“How did you and Miss Lloyd spend the remainder of the evening?”

“It was but a short evening. We sat in the music-room for a time, but at
about ten o'clock we both went up to our rooms.”

“Had Mr. Crawford returned then?”

“Yes, he came in perhaps an hour earlier. We heard him come in at the
front door, and go at once to his office.”

“You did not see him, or speak to him?”

“We did not. He had a caller during the evening. It was Mr. Porter, I
have since learned.”

“Did Miss Lloyd express no interest as to whether he had changed his
will or not?”

“Miss Lloyd didn't mention the will, or her engagement, to me at all. We
talked entirely of other matters.”

“Was Miss Lloyd in her usual mood or spirits?”

“She seemed a little quiet, but not at all what you might call worried.”

“Was not this strange when she was fully expecting to be deprived of her
entire fortune?”

“It was not strange for Miss Lloyd. She rarely talks of her own affairs.
We spent an evening similar in all respects to our usual evening when we
do not have guests.”

“And you both went upstairs at ten. Was that unusually early for you?”

“Well, unless we have guests, we often go at ten or half-past ten.”

“And did you see Miss Lloyd again that night?”

“Yes; about half an hour later, I went to her room for a book I wanted.”

“Miss Lloyd had not retired?”

“No; she asked me to sit down for awhile and chat.”

“Did you do so?”

“Only for a few moments. I was interested in the book I had come for,
and I wanted to take it away to my own room to read.”

“And Miss Lloyd, then, did not seem dispirited or in any way in an
unusual mood?”

“Not that I noticed. I wasn't quizzing her or looking into her eyes to
see what her thoughts were, for it didn't occur to me to do so. I
knew her uncle had dealt her a severe blow, but as she didn't open
the subject, of course I couldn't discuss it with her. But I did think
perhaps she wanted to be by herself to consider the matter, and that was
one reason why I didn't stay and chat as she had asked me to.”

“Perhaps she really wanted to discuss the matter with you.”

“Perhaps she did; but in that case she should have said so. Florence
knows well enough that I am always ready to discuss or sympathize with
her in any matter, but I never obtrude my opinions. So as she said
nothing to lead me to think she wanted to talk to me especially, I said
good-night to her.”




VIII. FURTHER INQUIRY


“Did you happen to notice, Mrs. Pierce, whether Miss Lloyd was wearing a
yellow rose when you saw her in her room?”

Mrs. Pierce hesitated. She looked decidedly embarrassed, and seemed
disinclined to answer. But she might have known that to hesitate and
show embarrassment was almost equivalent to an affirmative answer to the
coroner's question. At last she replied,

“I don't know; I didn't notice.”

This might have been a true statement, but I think no one in the room
believed it. The coroner tried again.

“Try to think, Mrs. Pierce. It is important that we should know if Miss
Lloyd was wearing a yellow rose.”

“Yes,” flared out Mrs. Pierce angrily, “so that you can prove she went
down to her uncle's office later and dropped a piece of her rose there!
But I tell you I don't remember whether she was wearing a rose or not,
and it wouldn't matter if she had on forty roses! If Florence Lloyd says
she didn't go down-stairs, she didn't.”

“I think we all believe in Miss Lloyd's veracity,” said Mr. Monroe, “but
it is necessary to discover where those rose petals in the library came
from. You saw the flowers in her room, Mrs. Pierce?”

“Yes, I believe I did. But I paid no attention to them, as Florence
nearly always has flowers in her room.”

“Would you have heard Miss Lloyd if she had gone down-stairs after you
left her?”

“I don't know,” said Mrs. Pierce, doubtfully.

“Is your room next to hers?”

“No, not next.”

“Is it on the same corridor?”

“No.”

“Around a corner?”

“Yes.”

“And at some distance?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Pierce's answers became more hesitating as she saw the drift
of Mr. Monroe's questions. Clearly, she was trying to shield Florence,
if necessary, at the expense of actual truthfulness.

“Then,” went on Mr. Monroe, inexorably, “I understand you to say that
you think you would have heard Miss Lloyd, had she gone down-stairs,
although your room is at a distance and around a corner and the hall and
stairs are thickly carpeted. Unless you were listening especially, Mrs.
Pierce, I think you would scarcely have heard her descend.”

“Well, as she didn't go down, of course I didn't hear her,” snapped Mrs.
Pierce, with the feminine way of settling an argument by an unprovable
statement.

Mr. Monroe began on another tack.

“When you went to Miss Lloyd's room,” he said, “was the maid, Elsa,
there?”

“Miss Lloyd had just dismissed her for the night.”

“What was Miss Lloyd doing when you went to her room?”

“She was looking over some gowns that she proposed sending to the
cleaner's.”

The coroner fairly jumped. He remembered the newspaper clipping of a
cleaner's advertisement, which was even now in the gold bag before him.
Though all the jurors had seen it, it had not been referred to in the
presence of the women.

Recovering himself at once, he said quietly “Was not that rather work
for Miss Lloyd's maid?”

“Oh, Elsa would pack and send them, of course,” said Mrs. Pierce
carelessly. “Miss Lloyd was merely deciding which ones needed cleaning.”

“Do you know where they were to be sent?”

Mrs. Pierce looked a little surprised at this question.

“Miss Lloyd always sends her things to Carter & Brown's,” she said.

Now, Carter & Brown was the firm name on the advertisement, and it was
evident at once that the coroner considered this a damaging admission.

He sat looking greatly troubled, but before he spoke again, Mr.
Parmalee made an observation that decidedly raised that young man in my
estimation.

“Well,” he said, “that's pretty good proof that the gold bag doesn't
belong to Miss Lloyd.”

“How so?” asked the coroner, who had thought quite the contrary.

“Why, if Miss Lloyd always sends her goods to be cleaned to Carter &
Brown, why would she need to cut their address from a newspaper and save
it?”

At first I thought the young man's deduction distinctly clever, but
on second thought I wasn't so sure. Miss Lloyd might have wanted that
address for a dozen good reasons. To my mind, it proved neither her
ownership of the gold bag, nor the contrary.

In fact, I thought the most important indication that the bag might be
hers lay in the story Elsa told about the cousin who sailed to Germany.
Somehow that sounded untrue to me, but I was more than willing to
believe it if I could.

I longed for Fleming Stone, who, I felt sure, could learn from the bag
and its contents the whole truth about the crime and the criminal.

But I had been called to take charge of the case, and my pride forbade
me to call on any one for help.

I had scorned deductions from inanimate objects, but I resolved to study
that bag again, and study it more minutely. Perhaps there were some
threads or shreds caught in its meshes that might point to its owner. I
remembered a detective story I read once, in which the whole discovery
of the criminal depended on identifying a few dark blue woollen threads
which were found in a small pool of candle grease on a veranda roof. As
it turned out, they were from the trouser knee of a man who had knelt
there to open a window. The patent absurdity of leaving threads from
one's trouser knee, amused me very much, but the accommodating criminals
in fiction almost always leave threads or shreds behind them. And surely
a gold-mesh bag, with its thousands of links would be a fine trap to
catch some threads of evidence, however minute they might be.

Furthermore I decided to probe further into that yellow rose business. I
was not at all sure that those petals I found on the floor had anything
to do with Miss Lloyd's roses, but it must be a question possible of
settlement, if I went about it in the right way. At any rate, though
I had definite work ahead of me, my duty just now was to listen to the
forthcoming evidence, though I could not help thinking I could have put
questions more to the point than Mr. Monroe did.

Of course the coroner's inquest was not formally conducted as a trial by
jury would be, and so any one spoke, if he chose, and the coroner seemed
really glad when suggestions were offered him.

At this point Philip Crawford rose.

“It is impossible,” he said, “not to see whither these questions are
tending. But you are on the wrong tack, Mr. Coroner. No matter how
evidence may seem to point toward Florence Lloyd's association with this
crime, it is only seeming. That gold bag might have been hers and it
might not. But if she says it isn't, why, then it isn't! Notwithstanding
the state of affairs between my brother and his niece, there is not
the shadow of a possibility that the young woman is implicated in
the slightest degree, and the sooner you leave her name out of
consideration, and turn your search into other channels, the sooner you
will find the real criminal.”

It was not so much the words of Philip Crawford, as the sincere way in
which they were spoken, that impressed me. Surely he was right; surely
this beautiful girl was neither principal nor accessory in the awful
crime which, by a strange coincidence, gave to her her fortune and her
lover.

“Mr. Crawford's right,” said Lemuel Porter. “If this jury allows itself
to be misled by a gold purse and two petals of a yellow rose, we are
unworthy to sit on this case. Why, Mr. Coroner, the long French windows
in the office were open, or, at least, unfastened all through the night.
We have that from the butler's testimony. He didn't lock them last
night; they were found unlocked this morning. Therefore, I hold that
an intruder, either man or woman, may have come in during the night,
accomplished the fatal deed, and departed without any one being the
wiser. That this intruder was a woman, is evidenced by the bag she left
behind her. For, as Mr. Crawford has said, if Miss Lloyd denies the
ownership of that bag, it is not hers.”

After all, these declarations were proof, of a sort. If Mr. Porter and
Mr. Philip Crawford, who had known Florence Lloyd for years, spoke thus
positively of her innocence, it could not be doubted.

And then the voice of Parmalee again sounded in my ears.

“Of course Mr. Porter and Mr. Crawford would stand up for Miss Lloyd; it
would be strange if they didn't. And of course, Mrs. Pierce will do all
she can to divert suspicion. But the evidences are against her.”

“They only seem to be,” I corrected. “Until we prove the gold bag and
the yellow rose to be hers; there is no evidence against her at all.”

“She also had motive and opportunity. Those two points are of quite as
much importance as evidence.”

“She had motive and opportunity,” I agreed, “but they were not
exclusive. As Mr. Porter pointed out, the open windows gave opportunity
that was world wide; and as to motive, how are we to know who had or who
hadn't it.”

“You're right, I suppose. Perhaps I am too positive of Miss Lloyd's
implication in the matter, but I'm quite willing to be convinced to the
contrary.”

The remarks of Mr. Parmalee were of course not audible to any one save
myself. But the speeches which had been made by Mr. Crawford and Mr.
Porter, and which, strange to say, amounted to an arraignment and a
vindication almost in the same breath, had a decided effect upon the
assembly.

Mrs. Pierce began to weep silently. Gregory Hall looked startled, as
if the mere idea of Miss Lloyd's implication was a new thought to him.
Lawyer Randolph looked considerably disturbed, and I at once suspected
that his legal mind would not allow him to place too much dependence on
the statements of the girl's sympathetic friends.

Mr. Hamilton, another of the jurors whom I liked, seemed to be
thoughtfully weighing the evidence. He was not so well acquainted with
Miss Lloyd as the two men who had just spoken in her behalf, and he made
a remark somewhat diffidently.

“I agree,” he said, “with the sentiments just expressed; but I also
think that we should endeavor to find some further clues or evidence.
Had Mr. Crawford any enemies who would come at night to kill him? Or are
there any valuables missing? Could robbery have been the motive?”

“It does not seem so,” replied the coroner. “Nothing is known to be
missing. Mr. Crawford's watch and pocket money were not disturbed.”

“The absence of the weapon is a strange factor in the case,” put in Mr.
Orville, apparently desirous of having his voice heard as well as those
of the other jurors.

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Monroe; “and yet it is not strange that the criminal
carried away with him what might have been a proof of his identity.”

“Does Miss Lloyd own a pistol?” blurted out Mr. Parmalee.

Gregory Hall gave him an indignant look, but Coroner Monroe seemed
rather glad to have the question raised--probably so that it could be
settle at once in the negative.

And it was.

“No,” replied Mrs. Pierce, when the query was put to her. “Both Florence
and I are desperately afraid of firearms. We wouldn't dream of owning a
pistol--either of us.”

Of course, this was significant, but in no way decisive. Granting that
Miss Lloyd could have been the criminal, it would have been possible
for her secretly to procure a revolver, and secretly to dispose of it
afterward. Then, too, a small revolver had been used. To be sure,
this did not necessarily imply that a woman had used it, but, taken in
connection with the bag and the rose petals, it gave food for thought.

But the coroner seemed to think Mrs. Pierce's assertions greatly in
Miss Lloyd's favor, and, being at the end of his list of witnesses, he
inquired if any one else in the room knew of anything that could throw
light on the matter.

No one responded to this invitation, and the coroner then directed the
jury to retire to find a verdict. The six men passed into another room,
and I think no one who awaited their return apprehended any other result
than the somewhat unsatisfactory one of “person or persons unknown.”

And this was what the foreman announced when the jury returned after
their short collocation.

Then, as a jury, they were dismissed, but from that moment the mystery
of Joseph Crawford's death became the absorbing thought of all West
Sedgwick.

“The murderer of my brother shall be found and brought to justice!”
 declared Philip Crawford, and all present seemed to echo his vow.

Then and there, Mr. Crawford retained Lawyer Randolph to help him
in running down the villain, and, turning to me, asked to engage my
services also.

To this, I readily agreed, for I greatly desired to go on with the
matter, and cared little whether I worked for an individual or for the
State.

Of course Mr. Crawford's determination to find the murderer proved anew
his conviction that Florence Lloyd was above all suspicion, but in the
face of certain details of the evidence so far, I could not feel so
absolutely certain of this.

However, it was my business to follow up every clue, or apparent clue,
and every bit of evidence, and this I made up my mind to do, regardless
of consequences.

I confess it was difficult for me to feel regardless of consequences,
for I had a haunting fear that the future was going to look dark for
Florence Lloyd. And if it should be proved that she was in any way
responsible for or accessory to this crime, I knew I should wish I had
had nothing to do with discovering that fact. But back of this was an
undefined but insistent conviction that the girl was innocent, and
that I could prove it. This may have been an inordinate faith in my own
powers, or it may have been a hope born of my admiration for the young
woman herself. For there is no doubt, that for the first time in my life
I was taking a serious interest in a woman's personality. Heretofore
I had been a general admirer of womankind, and I had naturally treated
them all with chivalry and respect. But now I had met one whom I desired
to treat in a far tenderer way, and to my chagrin I realized that I had
no right to entertain such thoughts toward a girl already betrothed.

So I concluded to try my best to leave Florence Lloyd's personality out
of the question, to leave my feelings toward her out of the question,
and to devote my energies to real work on the case and prove by
intelligent effort that I could learn facts from evidence without
resorting to the microscopic methods of Fleming Stone. I purposely
ignored the fact that I would have been only too glad to use these
methods had I the power to do so!




IX. THE TWELFTH ROSE


For the next day or two the Crawford house presented the appearance
usual in any home during the days immediately preceding a funeral.

By tacit consent, all reference to the violence of Mr. Crawford's
death was avoided, and a rigorous formality was the keynote of all the
ceremonies. The servants were garbed in correct mourning, the ladies of
the house refused to see anybody, and all personal callers were met by
Philip Crawford or his wife, while business acquaintances were received
by Gregory Hall.

As private secretary, of course Mr. Hall was in full charge of Mr.
Crawford's papers and personal effects. But, in addition to this, as the
prospective husband of the heiress, he was practically the head of the
house.

He showed no elation or ostentation at this state of affairs, but
carried himself with an air of quiet dignity, tinged with a suggestion
of sadness, which, if merely conventional, seemed none the less sincere.

I soon learned that the whole social atmosphere of West Sedgwick was
one of extreme formality, and everything was done in accordance with the
most approved conventions. Therefore, I found I could get no chance for
a personal conversation with Miss Lloyd until after the funeral.

I had, however, more or less talk with Gregory Hall, and as I became
acquainted with him, I liked him less.

He was of a cold and calculating disposition, and when we were alone, he
did not hesitate to gloat openly over his bright prospects.

“Terrible thing, to be put out of existence like that,” he said, as we
sat in Mr. Crawford's office, looking over some papers; “but it solved a
big problem for Florence and me. However, we'll be married as soon as we
decently can, and then we'll go abroad, and forget the tragic part of it
all.”

“I suppose you haven't a glimmer of a suspicion as to who did it,” I
ventured.

“No, I haven't. Not the faintest notion. But I wish you could find
out. Of course, nobody holds up that bag business as against Florence,
but--it's uncomfortable all the same. I wish I'd been here that night.
I'm 'most sure I'd have heard a shot, or something.”

“Where were you?” I said, in a careless tone.

Hall drew himself up stiffly. “Excuse me,” he said. “I declined to
answer that question before. Since I was not in West Sedgwick, it can
matter to no one where I was.”

“Oh, that's all right,” I returned affably, for I had no desire to get
his ill will. “But of course we detectives have to ask questions. By the
way, where did you buy Miss Lloyd's yellow roses?”

“See here,” said Gregory Hall, with a petulant expression, “I don't want
to be questioned. I'm not on the witness-stand, and, as I've told you,
I'm uncomfortable already about these so-called `clues' that seem to
implicate Miss Lloyd. So, if you please, I'll say nothing.”

“All right,” I responded, “just as you like.”

I went away from the house, thinking how foolish people could be. I
could easily discover where he bought the roses, as there were only
three florists' shops in West Sedgwick and I resolved to go at once to
hunt up the florist who sold them.

Assuming he would naturally go to the shop nearest the railroad station,
and which was also on the way from the Crawford house, I went there
first, and found my assumption correct.

The florist was more than willing to talk on the subject.

“Yes, sir,” he said; “I sold those roses to Mr. Hall--sold 'em to him
myself. He wanted something extra nice, and I had just a dozen of those
big yellow beauties. No, I don't raise my own flowers. I get 'em from
the city. And so I had just that dozen, and I sent 'em right up. Well,
there was some delay, for two of my boys were out to supper, and I
waited for one to get back.”

“And you had no other roses just like these in stock?”

“No, sir. Hadn't had for a week or more. Haven't any now. May not get
any more at all. They're a scarce sort, at best, and specially so this
year.”

“And you sent Miss Lloyd the whole dozen?”

“Yes, sir; twelve. I like to put in an extra one or two when I can, but
that time I couldn't. There wasn't another rose like them short of New
York City.”

I thanked the florist, and, guessing that he was not above it, I gave
him a more material token of my gratitude for his information, and then
walked slowly back to my room at the inn.

Since there were no other roses of that sort in West Sedgwick that
evening, it seemed to me as if Florence Lloyd must have gone down to her
uncle's office after having pinned the blossom on her bodice. The only
other possibility was that some intruder had entered by way of the
French window wearing or carrying a similar flower, and that this
intruder had come from New York, or at least from some place other than
West Sedgwick. It was too absurd. Murderers don't go about decked with
flowers, and yet at midnight a man in evening dress was not impossible,
and evening dress might easily imply a boutonniere.

Well, this well-dressed man I had conjured up in my mind must have come
from out of town, or else whence the flower, after all?

And then I bethought myself of that late newspaper. An extra, printed
probably as late as eleven o'clock at night, must have been brought
out to West Sedgwick by a traveller on some late train. Why not Gregory
Hall, himself? I let my imagination run riot for a minute. Mr. Hall
refused to say where he was on the night of the murder. Why not assume
that he had come out from New York, in evening dress, at or about
midnight? This would account for the newspaper and the yellow rose
petals, for, if he bought a boutonniere in the city, how probable he
would select the same flower he had just sent his fiancee.

I rather fancied the idea of Gregory Hall as the criminal. He had the
same motive as Miss Lloyd. He knew of her uncle's objection to their
union, and his threat of disinheritance. How easy for him to come out
late from New York, on a night when he was not expected, and remove
forever the obstacle to his future happiness!

I drew myself up with a start. This was not detective work. This was
mere idle speculation. I must shake it off, and set about collecting
some real evidence.

But the thought still clung to me; mere speculation it might be, but it
was founded on the same facts that already threw suspicion on Florence
Lloyd. With the exception of the gold bag--and that she disclaimed--such
evidence as I knew of pointed toward Mr. Hall as well as toward Miss
Lloyd.

However at present I was on the trail of those roses, and I determined
to follow that trail to a definite end. I went back to the Crawford
house and as I did not like to ask for Miss Lloyd, I asked for Mrs.
Pierce.

She came down to the drawing room, and greeted me rather more cordially
than I had dared to hope. I had a feeling that both ladies resented my
presence there, for so many women have a prejudice against detectives.

But though nervous and agitated, Mrs. Pierce spoke to me kindly.

“Did you want to see me for anything in particular, Mr. Burroughs?” she
asked.

“Yes, I do, Mrs. Pierce,” I replied; “I may as well tell you frankly
that I want to find out all I can about those yellow roses.”

“Oh, those roses! Shall I never hear the last of them? I assure you, Mr.
Burroughs, they're of no importance whatever.”

“That is not for you to decide,” I said quietly, and I began to see
that perhaps a dictatorial attitude might be the best way to manage this
lady. “Are the rest of those flowers still in Miss Lloyd's room? If so I
wish to see them.”

“I don't know whether they are or not; but I will find out, and if so
I'll bring them down.”

“No,” I said, “I will go with you to see them.”

“But Florence may be in her room.”

“So much the better. She can tell me anything I wish to know.”

“Oh, please don't interview her! I'm sure she wouldn't want to talk with
you.”

“Very well, then ask her to vacate the room, and I will go there with
you now.”

Mrs. Pierce went away, and I began to wonder if I had gone too far or
had overstepped my authority. But it was surely my duty to learn all I
could about Florence Lloyd, and what so promising of suggestions as her
own room?

Mrs. Pierce returned in a few moments, and affably enough she asked me
to accompany her to Miss Lloyd's room.

I did so, and after entering devoted my whole attention to the bunch of
yellow roses, which in a glass vase stood on the window seat. Although
somewhat wilted, they were still beautiful, and without the slightest
doubt were the kind of rose from which the two tell-tale petals had
fallen.

Acting upon a sudden thought, I counted them. There were nine, each one
seemingly with its full complement of petals, though of this I could not
be perfectly certain.

“Now, Mrs.--Pierce,” I said, turning to her with an air of authority
which was becoming difficult to maintain, “where are the roses which
Miss Lloyd admits having pinned to her gown?”

“Mercy! I don't know,” exclaimed Mrs. Pierce, looking bewildered. “I
suppose she threw them away.”

“I suppose she did,” I returned; “would she not be likely to throw them
in the waste basket?”

“She might,” returned Mrs. Pierce, turning toward an ornate affair of
wicker-work and pink ribbons.

Sure enough, in the basket, among a few scraps of paper, were two
exceedingly withered yellow roses. I picked them out and examined them,
but in their present state it was impossible to tell whether they had
lost any petals or not, so I threw them back in the basket.

Mrs. Pierce seemed to care nothing for evidence or deduction in the
matter, but began to lament the carelessness of the chambermaid who had
not emptied the waste basket the day before.

But I secretly blessed the delinquent servant, and began pondering on
this new development of the rose question. The nine roses in the vase
and the two in the basket made but eleven, and the florist had told me
that he had sent a dozen. Where was the twelfth?

The thought occurred to me that Miss Lloyd might have put away one as a
sentimental souvenir, but to my mind she did not seem the kind of a girl
to do that. I knew my reasoning was absurd, for what man can predicate
what a woman will do? but at the same time I could not seem to imagine
the statuesque, imperial Miss Lloyd tenderly preserving a rose that her
lover had given her.

But might not Gregory Hall have taken one of the dozen for himself
before sending the rest? This was merely surmise, but it was a
possibility, and at any rate the twelfth rose was not in Miss Lloyd's
room.

Therefore the twelfth rose was a factor to be reckoned with, a bit of
evidence to be found; and I determined to find it.

I asked Mrs. Pierce to arrange for me an interview with Miss Lloyd, but
the elder lady seemed doubtful.

“I'm quite sure she won't see you,” she said, “for she has declared she
will see no one until after the funeral. But if you want me to ask her
anything for you, I will do so.”

“Very well,” I said, surprised at her willingness; “please ask Miss
Lloyd if she knows what became of the twelfth yellow rose; and beg her
to appreciate the fact that it is a vital point in the case.”

Mrs. Pierce agreed to do this, and as I went down the stairs she
promised to join me in the library a few moments later.

She kept her promise, and I waited eagerly her report.

“Miss Lloyd bids me tell you,” she said, “that she knows nothing of what
you call the twelfth rose. She did not count the roses, she merely took
two of them to pin on her dress, and when she retired, she carelessly
threw those two in the waste basket. She thinks it probable there
were only eleven in the box when it arrived. But at any rate she knows
nothing more of the matter.”

I thanked Mrs. Pierce for her courtesy and patience, and feeling that I
now had a real problem to consider, I started back to the inn.

It could not be that this rose matter was of no importance. For the
florist had assured me he had sold exactly twelve flowers to Mr. Gregory
Hall, and of these, I could account for only eleven. The twelfth rose
must have been separated from the others, either by Mr. Hall, at the
time of purchase, or by some one else later. If the petals found on the
floor fell from that twelfth rose, and if Florence Lloyd spoke the
truth when she declared she knew nothing of it, then she was free from
suspicion in that direction.

But until I could make some further effort to find out about the missing
rose I concluded to say nothing of it to anybody. I was not bound to
tell Parmalee any points I might discover, for though colleagues, we
were working independently of each other.

But as I was anxious to gather any side lights possible, I determined to
go for a short conference with the district attorney, in whose hands the
case had been put after the coroner's inquest.

He was a man named Goodrich, a quiet mannered, untalkative person, and
as might be expected he had made little or no progress as yet.

He said nothing could be done until after the funeral and the reading of
the will, which ceremonies would occur the next afternoon.

I talked but little to Mr. Goodrich, yet I soon discovered that he
strongly suspected Miss Lloyd of the crime, either as principal or
accessory.

“But I can't believe it,” I objected. “A girl, delicately brought up,
in refined and luxurious surroundings, does not deliberately commit an
atrocious crime.”

“A woman thwarted in her love affair will do almost anything,” declared
Mr. Goodrich. “I have had more experience than you, my boy, and I advise
you not to bank too much on the refined and luxurious surroundings.
Sometimes such things foster crime instead of preventing it. But the
truth will come out, and soon, I think. The evidence that seems to point
to Miss Lloyd can be easily proved or disproved, once we get at the work
in earnest. That coroner's jury was made up of men who were friends and
neighbors of Mr. Crawford. They were so prejudiced by sympathy for Miss
Lloyd, and indignation at the unknown criminal, that they couldn't give
unbiased judgment. But we will yet see justice done. If Miss Lloyd is
innocent, we can prove it. But remember the provocation she was under.
Remember the opportunity she had, to visit her uncle alone in his
office, after every one else in the house was asleep. Remember that she
had a motive--a strong motive--and no one else had.”

“Except Mr. Gregory Hall,” I said meaningly.

“Yes; I grant he had the same motive. But he is known to have left town
at six that evening, and did not return until nearly noon the next day.
That lets him out.”

“Yes, unless he came back at midnight, and then went back to the city
again.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Goodrich. “That's fanciful. Why, the latest
train--the theatre train, as we call it--gets in at one o'clock, and
it's always full of our society people returning from gayeties in New
York. He would have been seen had he come on that train, and there is no
later one.”

I didn't stay to discuss the matter further. Indeed, Mr. Goodrich had
made me feel that my theories were fanciful.

But whatever my theories might be there were still facts to be
investigated.

Remembering my determination to examine that gold bag more thoroughly
I asked Mr. Goodrich to let me see it, for of course, as district
attorney, it was now in his possession.

He gave it to me with an approving nod. “That's the way to work,” he
said. “That bag is your evidence. Now from that, you detectives must go
ahead and learn the truth.”

“Whose bag is it?” I said, with the intention of drawing him out.

“It's Miss Lloyd's bag,” he said gravely. “Any woman in the world
would deny its ownership, in the existing circumstances, and I am
not surprised that she did so. Nor do I blame her for doing so. Self
preservation is a mighty strong impulse in the human heart, and we've
all got a right to obey it.”

As I took the gold bag from his hand, I didn't in the least believe that
Florence Lloyd was the owner of it, and I resolved anew to prove this to
the satisfaction of everybody concerned.

Mr. Goodrich turned away and busied himself about other matters, and I
devoted myself to deep study.

The contents of the bag proved as blank and unsuggestive as ever. The
most exhaustive examination of its chain, its clasp and its thousands of
links gave me not the tiniest thread or shred of any sort.

But as I poked and pried around in its lining I found a card, which had
slipped between the main lining and an inside pocket.

I drew it out as carefully as I could, and it proved to be a small plain
visiting card bearing the engraved name, “Mrs. Egerton Purvis.”

I sat staring at it, and then furtively glanced at Mr. Goodrich. He was
not observing me, and I instinctively felt that I did not wish him to
know of the card until I myself had given the matter further thought.

I returned the card to its hiding place and returned the bag to Mr.
Goodrich, after which I went away.

I had not copied the name, for it was indelibly photographed upon my
brain. As I walked along the street I tried to construct the personality
of Mrs. Egerton Purvis from her card. But I was able to make no rational
deductions, except that the name sounded aristocratic, and was quite in
keeping with the general effect of the bag and its contents.

To be sure I might have deduced that she was a lady of average height
and size, because she wore a number six glove; that she was careful of
her personal appearance, because she possessed a vanity case; that she
was of tidy habits, because she evidently expected to send her gowns
to be cleaned. But all these things seemed to me puerile and even
ridiculous, as such characteristics would apply to thousands of woman
all over the country.

Instead of this, I went straight to the telegraph office and wired to
headquarters in a cipher code. I instructed them to learn the identity
and whereabouts of Mrs. Egerton Purvis, and advise me as soon as
possible.

Then I returned to the Sedgwick Arms, feeling decidedly well satisfied
with my morning's work, and content to wait until after Mr. Crawford's
funeral to do any further real work in the matter.




X. THE WILL


I went to the Crawford house on the day of the funeral; but as I reached
there somewhat earlier than the hour appointed, I went into the office
with the idea of looking about for further clues.

In the office I found Gregory Hall; looking decidedly disturbed.

“I can't find Mr. Crawford's will,” he said, as he successively looked
through one drawer after another.

“What!” I responded. “Hasn't that been located already?”

“No; it's this way: I didn't see it here in this office, or in the New
York office, so I assumed Mr. Randolph had it in his possession. But
it seems he thought it was here, all the time. Only this morning we
discovered our mutual error, and Mr. Randolph concluded it must be in
Mr. Crawford's safety deposit box at the bank in New York. So Mr. Philip
Crawford hurried through his administration papers--he is to be executor
of the estate--and went in to get it from the bank. But he has just
returned with the word that it wasn't there. So we've no idea where it
is.”

“Oh, well,” said I, “since he hadn't yet made the new will he had in
mind, everything belongs to Miss Lloyd.”

“That's just the point,” said Hall, his face taking on a despairing
look. “If we don't find that will, she gets nothing!”

“How's that?” I said.

“Why, she's really not related to the Crawfords. She's a niece of Joseph
Crawford's wife. So in the absence of a will his property will all go to
his brother Philip, who is his legal heir.”

“Oho!” I exclaimed. “This is a new development. But the will will turn
up.”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure of it,” returned Hall, but his anxious face showed
anything but confidence in his own words.

“But,” I went on, “didn't Philip Crawford object to his brother's giving
all his fortune to Miss Lloyd?”

“It didn't matter if he did. Nobody could move Joseph Crawford's
determination. And I fancy Philip didn't make any great disturbance
about it. Of course, Mr. Joseph had a right to do as he chose with his
own, and the will gave Philip a nice little sum, any way. Not much,
compared to the whole fortune, but, still, a generous bequest.”

“What does Mr. Randolph say?”

“He's completely baffled. He doesn't know what to think.”

“Can it have been stolen?”

“Why, no; who would steal it? I only fear he may have destroyed it
because he expected to make a different one. In that case, Florence is
penniless, save for such bounty as Philip Crawford chooses to bestow on
her.”

I didn't like the tone in which Hall said this. It was distinctly
aggrieved, and gave the impression that Florence Lloyd, penniless,
was of far less importance than Miss Lloyd, the heiress of her uncle's
millions.

“But he would doubtless provide properly for her,” I said.

“Oh, yes, properly. But she would find herself in a very different
position, dependent on his generosity, from what she would be as sole
heir to her uncle's fortune.”

I looked steadily at the man. Although not well acquainted with him, I
couldn't resist giving expression to my thought.

“But since you are to marry her,” I said, “she need not long be
dependent upon her uncle's charity.”

“Philip Crawford isn't really her uncle, and no one can say what he will
do in the matter.”

Gregory Hall was evidently greatly disturbed at the new situation
brought about by the disappearance of Mr. Crawford's will. But
apparently the main reason for his disturbance was the impending poverty
of his fiancee. There was no doubt that Mr. Carstairs and others who had
called this man a fortune-hunter had judged him rightly.

However, without further words on the subject, I waited while Hall
locked the door of the office, and then we went together to the great
drawing-room, where the funeral services were about to take place.

I purposely selected a position from which I could see the faces of the
group of people most nearly connected with the dead man. I had a strange
feeling, as I looked at them, that one of them might be the instrument
of the crime which had brought about this funeral occasion.

During the services I looked closely and in turn at each face, but
beyond the natural emotions of grief which might be expected, I could
read nothing more.

The brother, Philip Crawford, the near neighbors, Mr. Porter and Mr.
Hamilton, the lawyer, Mr. Randolph, all sat looking grave and solemn as
they heard the last words spoken above their dead friend. The ladies of
the household, quietly controlling their emotions, sat near me, and next
to Florence Lloyd Gregory Hall had seated himself.

All of these people I watched closely, half hoping that some inadvertent
sign might tell me of someone's knowledge of the secret. But when
the clergyman referred to the retribution that would sooner or later
overtake the criminal. I could see an expression of fear or apprehension
on no face save that of Florence Lloyd. She turned even whiter than
before, her pale lips compressed in a straight line, and her small black
gloved hand softly crept into that of Gregory Hall. The movement was
not generally noticeable, but it seemed to me pathetic above all things.
Whatever her position in the matter, she was surely appealing to him for
help and protection.

Without directly repulsing her, Hall was far from responsive. He allowed
her hand to rest in his own but gave her no answering pressure, and
looked distinctly relieved when, after a moment, she withdrew it.

I saw that Parmalee also had observed this, and I could see that to him
it was an indication of the girl's perturbed spirit. To me it seemed
that it might equally well mean many other things. For instance it might
mean her apprehension for Gregory Hall, who, I couldn't help thinking
was far more likely to be a wrongdoer than the girl herself.

With a little sigh I gave up trying to glean much information from the
present opportunity, and contented myself with the melancholy pleasure
it gave me simply to look at the sad sweet face of the girl who was
already enshrined in my heart.

After the solemn and rather elaborate obsequies were over, a little
assembly gathered in the library to hear the reading of the will.

As, until then, no one had known of the disappearance of the will,
except the lawyer and the secretary, it came as a thunderbolt.

“I have no explanation to offer,” said Mr. Randolph, looking greatly
concerned, but free of all personal responsibility. “Mr. Crawford always
kept the will in his own possession. When he came to see me, the last
evening he was alive, in regard to making a new will, he did not bring
the old one with him. We arranged to meet in his office the next morning
to draw up the new instrument, when he doubtless expected to destroy the
old one.

“He may have destroyed it on his return home that evening. I do not
know. But so far it has not been found among his papers in either of his
offices or in the bank. Of course it may appear, as the search, though
thorough, has not yet been exhaustive. We will, therefore, hold the
matter in abeyance a few days, hoping to find the missing document.”

His hearers were variously affected by this news. Florence Lloyd was
simply dazed. She could not seem to grasp a situation which so suddenly
changed her prospects. For she well knew that in the event of no will
being found, Joseph Crawford's brother would be his rightful heir, and
she would be legally entitled to nothing at all.

Philip Crawford sat with an utterly expressionless face. Quite able to
control his emotion, if he felt any, he made no sign that he welcomed
this possibility of a great fortune unexpectedly coming to him.

Lemuel Porter, who, with his wife, had remained because of their close
friendship with the family, spoke out rather abruptly,

“Find it! Of course it must be found! It's absurd to think the man
destroyed one will before the other was drawn.”

“I agree with you,” said Philip Crawford.

“Joseph was very methodical in his habits, and, besides, I doubt if he
would really have changed his will. I think he merely 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 back 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 t

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