I began on a new tack.

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

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

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

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

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

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

“Do you suspect him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were the letters from this lady?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked angry again, but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes smiled a little, as he said,

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

But I was pretty thoroughly on my guard now.

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

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

“I do not.”

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

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

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

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

“But you don't think so now, do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not likely. If the owner of that bag—a woman, presumably—is the slayer of Joseph Crawford, and made her escape from the scene undiscovered, she is not likely to stay around where she may be found. And the bag itself, and its contents, are hopelessly unindividual.”

“They are that,” I agreed. “Not a thing in it that mightn't be in any woman's bag in this country. To me, that cleaner's advertisement means nothing in connection with Miss Lloyd.”

“I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Burroughs. I confess I have had a half-fear that your suspicions had a trend in Florence's direction, and I assure you, sir, that girl is incapable of the slightest impulse toward crime.”

“I'm sure of that,” I said heartily, my blood bounding in my veins at an opportunity to speak in defense of the woman I loved. “But how if her impulses were directed, or even coerced, by another?”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing. But sometimes the best and sweetest women will act against their own good impulses for those they love.”

“I cannot pretend to misunderstand you,” said Mr. Porter. “But you are wrong. If the one you have in mind—I will say no name—was in any way guiltily implicated, it was without the knowledge or connivance of Florence Lloyd. But, man, the idea is absurd. The individual in question has a perfect alibi.”

“He refuses to give it.”

“Refuses the details, perhaps. And he has a right to, since they concern no one but himself. No, my friend, you know the French rule; well, follow that, and search for the lady with the gold-mesh bag.”

“The lady without it, at present,” I said, with an apologetic smile for my rather grim jest.

“Yes; and that's the difficulty. As she hasn't the bag, we can't discover her. So as a clue it is worthless.”

“It seems to be,” I agreed.

I thought best not to tell Mr. Porter of the card I had found in the bag, for I hoped soon to hear from headquarters concerning the lady whose name it bore. But I told him about the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford's desk, and showed it to him. He did not recognize it as being a portrait of any one he had ever seen. Nor did he take it very seriously as a clue.

“I'm quite sure,” he said, “that Joseph Crawford has not been interested in any woman since the death of his wife. He has always seemed devoted to her memory, and as one of his nearest friends, I think I would have known if he had formed any other attachment. Of course, in a matter like this, a man may well have a secret from his nearest friends, but I cannot think this mild and gentle-looking lady is at all concerned in the tragedy.”

As a matter of fact, I agreed with Mr. Porter, for nothing I had discovered among the late Mr. Crawford's effects led me to think he had any secret romance.

After Mr. Porter's departure I studied long over my puzzles, and I came to the conclusion that I could do little more until I should hear from headquarters.