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 event 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 mast 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 far 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 far 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 an 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 mast 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 new thoughts, but before I could formulate them, I heard the coroner going an with his questions.
“Did Mr. Crawford visit you last evening?”
“Yes; he was at my house for perhaps half an hour or mare 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, far 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 far 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. Crawfard 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 Dr 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
“l 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 comer?”
“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 no 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