Kitabı oku: «The Gold Bag», sayfa 5
VIII. FURTHER INQUIRY
“Did you happen to notice, Mrs. Pierce, whether Miss Lloyd was wearing a yellow rose when you saw her in her room?”
Mrs. Pierce hesitated. She looked decidedly embarrassed, and seemed disinclined to answer. But she might have known that to hesitate and show embarrassment was almost equivalent to an affirmative answer to the coroner’s question. At last she replied,
“I don’t know; I didn’t notice.”
This might have been a true statement, but I think no one in the room believed it. The coroner tried again.
“Try to think, Mrs. Pierce. It is important that we should know if Miss Lloyd was wearing a yellow rose.”
“Yes,” flared out Mrs. Pierce angrily, “so that you can prove she went down to her uncle’s office later and dropped a piece of her rose there! But I tell you I don’t remember whether she was wearing a rose or not, and it wouldn’t matter if she had on forty roses! If Florence Lloyd says she didn’t go down-stairs, she didn’t.”
“I think we all believe in Miss Lloyd’s veracity,” said Mr. Monroe, “but it is necessary to discover where those rose petals in the library came from. You saw the flowers in her room, Mrs. Pierce?”
“Yes, I believe I did. But I paid no attention to them, as Florence nearly always has flowers in her room.”
“Would you have heard Miss Lloyd if she had gone down-stairs after you left her?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Pierce, doubtfully.
“Is your room next to hers?”
“No, not next.”
“Is it on the same corridor?”
“No.”
“Around a corner?”
“Yes.”
“And at some distance?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Pierce’s answers became more hesitating as she saw the drift of Mr. Monroe’s questions. Clearly, she was trying to shield Florence, if necessary, at the expense of actual truthfulness.
“Then,” went on Mr. Monroe, inexorably, “I understand you to say that you think you would have heard Miss Lloyd, had she gone down-stairs, although your room is at a distance and around a corner and the hall and stairs are thickly carpeted. Unless you were listening especially, Mrs. Pierce, I think you would scarcely have heard her descend.”
“Well, as she didn’t go down, of course I didn’t hear her,” snapped Mrs. Pierce, with the feminine way of settling an argument by an unprovable statement.
Mr. Monroe began on another tack.
“When you went to Miss Lloyd’s room,” he said, “was the maid, Elsa, there?”
“Miss Lloyd had just dismissed her for the night.”
“What was Miss Lloyd doing when you went to her room?”
“She was looking over some gowns that she proposed sending to the cleaner’s.”
The coroner fairly jumped. He remembered the newspaper clipping of a cleaner’s advertisement, which was even now in the gold bag before him. Though all the jurors had seen it, it had not been referred to in the presence of the women.
Recovering himself at once, he said quietly “Was not that rather work for Miss Lloyd’s maid?”
“Oh, Elsa would pack and send them, of course,” said Mrs. Pierce carelessly. “Miss Lloyd was merely deciding which ones needed cleaning.”
“Do you know where they were to be sent?”
Mrs. Pierce looked a little surprised at this question.
“Miss Lloyd always sends her things to Carter & Brown’s,” she said.
Now, Carter & Brown was the firm name on the advertisement, and it was evident at once that the coroner considered this a damaging admission.
He sat looking greatly troubled, but before he spoke again, Mr. Parmalee made an observation that decidedly raised that young man in my estimation.
“Well,” he said, “that’s pretty good proof that the gold bag doesn’t belong to Miss Lloyd.”
“How so?” asked the coroner, who had thought quite the contrary.
“Why, if Miss Lloyd always sends her goods to be cleaned to Carter & Brown, why would she need to cut their address from a newspaper and save it?”
At first I thought the young man’s deduction distinctly clever, but on second thought I wasn’t so sure. Miss Lloyd might have wanted that address for a dozen good reasons. To my mind, it proved neither her ownership of the gold bag, nor the contrary.
In fact, I thought the most important indication that the bag might be hers lay in the story Elsa told about the cousin who sailed to Germany. Somehow that sounded untrue to me, but I was more than willing to believe it if I could.
I longed for Fleming Stone, who, I felt sure, could learn from the bag and its contents the whole truth about the crime and the criminal.
But I had been called to take charge of the case, and my pride forbade me to call on any one for help.
I had scorned deductions from inanimate objects, but I resolved to study that bag again, and study it more minutely. Perhaps there were some threads or shreds caught in its meshes that might point to its owner. I remembered a detective story I read once, in which the whole discovery of the criminal depended on identifying a few dark blue woollen threads which were found in a small pool of candle grease on a veranda roof. As it turned out, they were from the trouser knee of a man who had knelt there to open a window. The patent absurdity of leaving threads from one’s trouser knee, amused me very much, but the accommodating criminals in fiction almost always leave threads or shreds behind them. And surely a gold-mesh bag, with its thousands of links would be a fine trap to catch some threads of evidence, however minute they might be.
Furthermore I decided to probe further into that yellow rose business. I was not at all sure that those petals I found on the floor had anything to do with Miss Lloyd’s roses, but it must be a question possible of settlement, if I went about it in the right way. At any rate, though I had definite work ahead of me, my duty just now was to listen to the forthcoming evidence, though I could not help thinking I could have put questions more to the point than Mr. Monroe did.
Of course the coroner’s inquest was not formally conducted as a trial by jury would be, and so any one spoke, if he chose, and the coroner seemed really glad when suggestions were offered him.
At this point Philip Crawford rose.
“It is impossible,” he said, “not to see whither these questions are tending. But you are on the wrong tack, Mr. Coroner. No matter how evidence may seem to point toward Florence Lloyd’s association with this crime, it is only seeming. That gold bag might have been hers and it might not. But if she says it isn’t, why, then it isn’t! Notwithstanding the state of affairs between my brother and his niece, there is not the shadow of a possibility that the young woman is implicated in the slightest degree, and the sooner you leave her name out of consideration, and turn your search into other channels, the sooner you will find the real criminal.”
It was not so much the words of Philip Crawford, as the sincere way in which they were spoken, that impressed me. Surely he was right; surely this beautiful girl was neither principal nor accessory in the awful crime which, by a strange coincidence, gave to her her fortune and her lover.
“Mr. Crawford’s right,” said Lemuel Porter. “If this jury allows itself to be misled by a gold purse and two petals of a yellow rose, we are unworthy to sit on this case. Why, Mr. Coroner, the long French windows in the office were open, or, at least, unfastened all through the night. We have that from the butler’s testimony. He didn’t lock them last night; they were found unlocked this morning. Therefore, I hold that an intruder, either man or woman, may have come in during the night, accomplished the fatal deed, and departed without any one being the wiser. That this intruder was a woman, is evidenced by the bag she left behind her. For, as Mr. Crawford has said, if Miss Lloyd denies the ownership of that bag, it is not hers.”
After all, these declarations were proof, of a sort. If Mr. Porter and Mr. Philip Crawford, who had known Florence Lloyd for years, spoke thus positively of her innocence, it could not be doubted.
And then the voice of Parmalee again sounded in my ears.
“Of course Mr. Porter and Mr. Crawford would stand up for Miss Lloyd; it would be strange if they didn’t. And of course, Mrs. Pierce will do all she can to divert suspicion. But the evidences are against her.”
“They only seem to be,” I corrected. “Until we prove the gold bag and the yellow rose to be hers; there is no evidence against her at all.”
“She also had motive and opportunity. Those two points are of quite as much importance as evidence.”
“She had motive and opportunity,” I agreed, “but they were not exclusive. As Mr. Porter pointed out, the open windows gave opportunity that was world wide; and as to motive, how are we to know who had or who hadn’t it.”
“You’re right, I suppose. Perhaps I am too positive of Miss Lloyd’s implication in the matter, but I’m quite willing to be convinced to the contrary.”
The remarks of Mr. Parmalee were of course not audible to any one save myself. But the speeches which had been made by Mr. Crawford and Mr. Porter, and which, strange to say, amounted to an arraignment and a vindication almost in the same breath, had a decided effect upon the assembly.
Mrs. Pierce began to weep silently. Gregory Hall looked startled, as if the mere idea of Miss Lloyd’s implication was a new thought to him. Lawyer Randolph looked considerably disturbed, and I at once suspected that his legal mind would not allow him to place too much dependence on the statements of the girl’s sympathetic friends.
Mr. Hamilton, another of the jurors whom I liked, seemed to be thoughtfully weighing the evidence. He was not so well acquainted with Miss Lloyd as the two men who had just spoken in her behalf, and he made a remark somewhat diffidently.
“I agree,” he said, “with the sentiments just expressed; but I also think that we should endeavor to find some further clues or evidence. Had Mr. Crawford any enemies who would come at night to kill him? Or are there any valuables missing? Could robbery have been the motive?”
“It does not seem so,” replied the coroner. “Nothing is known to be missing. Mr. Crawford’s watch and pocket money were not disturbed.”
“The absence of the weapon is a strange factor in the case,” put in Mr. Orville, apparently desirous of having his voice heard as well as those of the other jurors.
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Monroe; “and yet it is not strange that the criminal carried away with him what might have been a proof of his identity.”
“Does Miss Lloyd own a pistol?” blurted out Mr. Parmalee.
Gregory Hall gave him an indignant look, but Coroner Monroe seemed rather glad to have the question raised—probably so that it could be settle at once in the negative.
And it was.
“No,” replied Mrs. Pierce, when the query was put to her. “Both Florence and I are desperately afraid of firearms. We wouldn’t dream of owning a pistol—either of us.”
Of course, this was significant, but in no way decisive. Granting that Miss Lloyd could have been the criminal, it would have been possible for her secretly to procure a revolver, and secretly to dispose of it afterward. Then, too, a small revolver had been used. To be sure, this did not necessarily imply that a woman had used it, but, taken in connection with the bag and the rose petals, it gave food for thought.
But the coroner seemed to think Mrs. Pierce’s assertions greatly in Miss Lloyd’s favor, and, being at the end of his list of witnesses, he inquired if any one else in the room knew of anything that could throw light on the matter.
No one responded to this invitation, and the coroner then directed the jury to retire to find a verdict. The six men passed into another room, and I think no one who awaited their return apprehended any other result than the somewhat unsatisfactory one of “person or persons unknown.”
And this was what the foreman announced when the jury returned after their short collocation.
Then, as a jury, they were dismissed, but from that moment the mystery of Joseph Crawford’s death became the absorbing thought of all West Sedgwick.
“The murderer of my brother shall be found and brought to justice!” declared Philip Crawford, and all present seemed to echo his vow.
Then and there, Mr. Crawford retained Lawyer Randolph to help him in running down the villain, and, turning to me, asked to engage my services also.
To this, I readily agreed, for I greatly desired to go on with the matter, and cared little whether I worked for an individual or for the State.
Of course Mr. Crawford’s determination to find the murderer proved anew his conviction that Florence Lloyd was above all suspicion, but in the face of certain details of the evidence so far, I could not feel so absolutely certain of this.
However, it was my business to follow up every clue, or apparent clue, and every bit of evidence, and this I made up my mind to do, regardless of consequences.
I confess it was difficult for me to feel regardless of consequences, for I had a haunting fear that the future was going to look dark for Florence Lloyd. And if it should be proved that she was in any way responsible for or accessory to this crime, I knew I should wish I had had nothing to do with discovering that fact. But back of this was an undefined but insistent conviction that the girl was innocent, and that I could prove it. This may have been an inordinate faith in my own powers, or it may have been a hope born of my admiration for the young woman herself. For there is no doubt, that for the first time in my life I was taking a serious interest in a woman’s personality. Heretofore I had been a general admirer of womankind, and I had naturally treated them all with chivalry and respect. But now I had met one whom I desired to treat in a far tenderer way, and to my chagrin I realized that I had no right to entertain such thoughts toward a girl already betrothed.
So I concluded to try my best to leave Florence Lloyd’s personality out of the question, to leave my feelings toward her out of the question, and to devote my energies to real work on the case and prove by intelligent effort that I could learn facts from evidence without resorting to the microscopic methods of Fleming Stone. I purposely ignored the fact that I would have been only too glad to use these methods had I the power to do so!
IX. THE TWELFTH ROSE
For the next day or two the Crawford house presented the appearance usual in any home during the days immediately preceding a funeral.
By tacit consent, all reference to the violence of Mr. Crawford’s death was avoided, and a rigorous formality was the keynote of all the ceremonies. The servants were garbed in correct mourning, the ladies of the house refused to see anybody, and all personal callers were met by Philip Crawford or his wife, while business acquaintances were received by Gregory Hall.
As private secretary, of course Mr. Hall was in full charge of Mr. Crawford’s papers and personal effects. But, in addition to this, as the prospective husband of the heiress, he was practically the head of the house.
He showed no elation or ostentation at this state of affairs, but carried himself with an air of quiet dignity, tinged with a suggestion of sadness, which, if merely conventional, seemed none the less sincere.
I soon learned that the whole social atmosphere of West Sedgwick was one of extreme formality, and everything was done in accordance with the most approved conventions. Therefore, I found I could get no chance for a personal conversation with Miss Lloyd until after the funeral.
I had, however, more or less talk with Gregory Hall, and as I became acquainted with him, I liked him less.
He was of a cold and calculating disposition, and when we were alone, he did not hesitate to gloat openly over his bright prospects.
“Terrible thing, to be put out of existence like that,” he said, as we sat in Mr. Crawford’s office, looking over some papers; “but it solved a big problem for Florence and me. However, we’ll be married as soon as we decently can, and then we’ll go abroad, and forget the tragic part of it all.”
“I suppose you haven’t a glimmer of a suspicion as to who did it,” I ventured.
“No, I haven’t. Not the faintest notion. But I wish you could find out. Of course, nobody holds up that bag business as against Florence, but—it’s uncomfortable all the same. I wish I’d been here that night. I’m ‘most sure I’d have heard a shot, or something.”
“Where were you?” I said, in a careless tone.
Hall drew himself up stiffly. “Excuse me,” he said. “I declined to answer that question before. Since I was not in West Sedgwick, it can matter to no one where I was.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I returned affably, for I had no desire to get his ill will. “But of course we detectives have to ask questions. By the way, where did you buy Miss Lloyd’s yellow roses?”
“See here,” said Gregory Hall, with a petulant expression, “I don’t want to be questioned. I’m not on the witness-stand, and, as I’ve told you, I’m uncomfortable already about these so-called `clues’ that seem to implicate Miss Lloyd. So, if you please, I’ll say nothing.”
“All right,” I responded, “just as you like.”
I went away from the house, thinking how foolish people could be. I could easily discover where he bought the roses, as there were only three florists’ shops in West Sedgwick and I resolved to go at once to hunt up the florist who sold them.
Assuming he would naturally go to the shop nearest the railroad station, and which was also on the way from the Crawford house, I went there first, and found my assumption correct.
The florist was more than willing to talk on the subject.
“Yes, sir,” he said; “I sold those roses to Mr. Hall—sold ‘em to him myself. He wanted something extra nice, and I had just a dozen of those big yellow beauties. No, I don’t raise my own flowers. I get ‘em from the city. And so I had just that dozen, and I sent ‘em right up. Well, there was some delay, for two of my boys were out to supper, and I waited for one to get back.”
“And you had no other roses just like these in stock?”
“No, sir. Hadn’t had for a week or more. Haven’t any now. May not get any more at all. They’re a scarce sort, at best, and specially so this year.”
“And you sent Miss Lloyd the whole dozen?”
“Yes, sir; twelve. I like to put in an extra one or two when I can, but that time I couldn’t. There wasn’t another rose like them short of New York City.”
I thanked the florist, and, guessing that he was not above it, I gave him a more material token of my gratitude for his information, and then walked slowly back to my room at the inn.
Since there were no other roses of that sort in West Sedgwick that evening, it seemed to me as if Florence Lloyd must have gone down to her uncle’s office after having pinned the blossom on her bodice. The only other possibility was that some intruder had entered by way of the French window wearing or carrying a similar flower, and that this intruder had come from New York, or at least from some place other than West Sedgwick. It was too absurd. Murderers don’t go about decked with flowers, and yet at midnight a man in evening dress was not impossible, and evening dress might easily imply a boutonniere.
Well, this well-dressed man I had conjured up in my mind must have come from out of town, or else whence the flower, after all?
And then I bethought myself of that late newspaper. An extra, printed probably as late as eleven o’clock at night, must have been brought out to West Sedgwick by a traveller on some late train. Why not Gregory Hall, himself? I let my imagination run riot for a minute. Mr. Hall refused to say where he was on the night of the murder. Why not assume that he had come out from New York, in evening dress, at or about midnight? This would account for the newspaper and the yellow rose petals, for, if he bought a boutonniere in the city, how probable he would select the same flower he had just sent his fiancee.
I rather fancied the idea of Gregory Hall as the criminal. He had the same motive as Miss Lloyd. He knew of her uncle’s objection to their union, and his threat of disinheritance. How easy for him to come out late from New York, on a night when he was not expected, and remove forever the obstacle to his future happiness!
I drew myself up with a start. This was not detective work. This was mere idle speculation. I must shake it off, and set about collecting some real evidence.
But the thought still clung to me; mere speculation it might be, but it was founded on the same facts that already threw suspicion on Florence Lloyd. With the exception of the gold bag—and that she disclaimed—such evidence as I knew of pointed toward Mr. Hall as well as toward Miss Lloyd.
However at present I was on the trail of those roses, and I determined to follow that trail to a definite end. I went back to the Crawford house and as I did not like to ask for Miss Lloyd, I asked for Mrs. Pierce.
She came down to the drawing room, and greeted me rather more cordially than I had dared to hope. I had a feeling that both ladies resented my presence there, for so many women have a prejudice against detectives.
But though nervous and agitated, Mrs. Pierce spoke to me kindly.
“Did you want to see me for anything in particular, Mr. Burroughs?” she asked.
“Yes, I do, Mrs. Pierce,” I replied; “I may as well tell you frankly that I want to find out all I can about those yellow roses.”
“Oh, those roses! Shall I never hear the last of them? I assure you, Mr. Burroughs, they’re of no importance whatever.”
“That is not for you to decide,” I said quietly, and I began to see that perhaps a dictatorial attitude might be the best way to manage this lady. “Are the rest of those flowers still in Miss Lloyd’s room? If so I wish to see them.”
“I don’t know whether they are or not; but I will find out, and if so I’ll bring them down.”
“No,” I said, “I will go with you to see them.”
“But Florence may be in her room.”
“So much the better. She can tell me anything I wish to know.”
“Oh, please don’t interview her! I’m sure she wouldn’t want to talk with you.”
“Very well, then ask her to vacate the room, and I will go there with you now.”
Mrs. Pierce went away, and I began to wonder if I had gone too far or had overstepped my authority. But it was surely my duty to learn all I could about Florence Lloyd, and what so promising of suggestions as her own room?
Mrs. Pierce returned in a few moments, and affably enough she asked me to accompany her to Miss Lloyd’s room.
I did so, and after entering devoted my whole attention to the bunch of yellow roses, which in a glass vase stood on the window seat. Although somewhat wilted, they were still beautiful, and without the slightest doubt were the kind of rose from which the two tell-tale petals had fallen.
Acting upon a sudden thought, I counted them. There were nine, each one seemingly with its full complement of petals, though of this I could not be perfectly certain.
“Now, Mrs.—Pierce,” I said, turning to her with an air of authority which was becoming difficult to maintain, “where are the roses which Miss Lloyd admits having pinned to her gown?”
“Mercy! I don’t know,” exclaimed Mrs. Pierce, looking bewildered. “I suppose she threw them away.”
“I suppose she did,” I returned; “would she not be likely to throw them in the waste basket?”
“She might,” returned Mrs. Pierce, turning toward an ornate affair of wicker-work and pink ribbons.
Sure enough, in the basket, among a few scraps of paper, were two exceedingly withered yellow roses. I picked them out and examined them, but in their present state it was impossible to tell whether they had lost any petals or not, so I threw them back in the basket.
Mrs. Pierce seemed to care nothing for evidence or deduction in the matter, but began to lament the carelessness of the chambermaid who had not emptied the waste basket the day before.
But I secretly blessed the delinquent servant, and began pondering on this new development of the rose question. The nine roses in the vase and the two in the basket made but eleven, and the florist had told me that he had sent a dozen. Where was the twelfth?
The thought occurred to me that Miss Lloyd might have put away one as a sentimental souvenir, but to my mind she did not seem the kind of a girl to do that. I knew my reasoning was absurd, for what man can predicate what a woman will do? but at the same time I could not seem to imagine the statuesque, imperial Miss Lloyd tenderly preserving a rose that her lover had given her.
But might not Gregory Hall have taken one of the dozen for himself before sending the rest? This was merely surmise, but it was a possibility, and at any rate the twelfth rose was not in Miss Lloyd’s room.
Therefore the twelfth rose was a factor to be reckoned with, a bit of evidence to be found; and I determined to find it.
I asked Mrs. Pierce to arrange for me an interview with Miss Lloyd, but the elder lady seemed doubtful.
“I’m quite sure she won’t see you,” she said, “for she has declared she will see no one until after the funeral. But if you want me to ask her anything for you, I will do so.”
“Very well,” I said, surprised at her willingness; “please ask Miss Lloyd if she knows what became of the twelfth yellow rose; and beg her to appreciate the fact that it is a vital point in the case.”
Mrs. Pierce agreed to do this, and as I went down the stairs she promised to join me in the library a few moments later.
She kept her promise, and I waited eagerly her report.
“Miss Lloyd bids me tell you,” she said, “that she knows nothing of what you call the twelfth rose. She did not count the roses, she merely took two of them to pin on her dress, and when she retired, she carelessly threw those two in the waste basket. She thinks it probable there were only eleven in the box when it arrived. But at any rate she knows nothing more of the matter.”
I thanked Mrs. Pierce for her courtesy and patience, and feeling that I now had a real problem to consider, I started back to the inn.
It could not be that this rose matter was of no importance. For the florist had assured me he had sold exactly twelve flowers to Mr. Gregory Hall, and of these, I could account for only eleven. The twelfth rose must have been separated from the others, either by Mr. Hall, at the time of purchase, or by some one else later. If the petals found on the floor fell from that twelfth rose, and if Florence Lloyd spoke the truth when she declared she knew nothing of it, then she was free from suspicion in that direction.
But until I could make some further effort to find out about the missing rose I concluded to say nothing of it to anybody. I was not bound to tell Parmalee any points I might discover, for though colleagues, we were working independently of each other.
But as I was anxious to gather any side lights possible, I determined to go for a short conference with the district attorney, in whose hands the case had been put after the coroner’s inquest.
He was a man named Goodrich, a quiet mannered, untalkative person, and as might be expected he had made little or no progress as yet.
He said nothing could be done until after the funeral and the reading of the will, which ceremonies would occur the next afternoon.
I talked but little to Mr. Goodrich, yet I soon discovered that he strongly suspected Miss Lloyd of the crime, either as principal or accessory.
“But I can’t believe it,” I objected. “A girl, delicately brought up, in refined and luxurious surroundings, does not deliberately commit an atrocious crime.”
“A woman thwarted in her love affair will do almost anything,” declared Mr. Goodrich. “I have had more experience than you, my boy, and I advise you not to bank too much on the refined and luxurious surroundings. Sometimes such things foster crime instead of preventing it. But the truth will come out, and soon, I think. The evidence that seems to point to Miss Lloyd can be easily proved or disproved, once we get at the work in earnest. That coroner’s jury was made up of men who were friends and neighbors of Mr. Crawford. They were so prejudiced by sympathy for Miss Lloyd, and indignation at the unknown criminal, that they couldn’t give unbiased judgment. But we will yet see justice done. If Miss Lloyd is innocent, we can prove it. But remember the provocation she was under. Remember the opportunity she had, to visit her uncle alone in his office, after every one else in the house was asleep. Remember that she had a motive—a strong motive—and no one else had.”
“Except Mr. Gregory Hall,” I said meaningly.
“Yes; I grant he had the same motive. But he is known to have left town at six that evening, and did not return until nearly noon the next day. That lets him out.”
“Yes, unless he came back at midnight, and then went back to the city again.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Goodrich. “That’s fanciful. Why, the latest train—the theatre train, as we call it—gets in at one o’clock, and it’s always full of our society people returning from gayeties in New York. He would have been seen had he come on that train, and there is no later one.”
I didn’t stay to discuss the matter further. Indeed, Mr. Goodrich had made me feel that my theories were fanciful.
But whatever my theories might be there were still facts to be investigated.
Remembering my determination to examine that gold bag more thoroughly I asked Mr. Goodrich to let me see it, for of course, as district attorney, it was now in his possession.
He gave it to me with an approving nod. “That’s the way to work,” he said. “That bag is your evidence. Now from that, you detectives must go ahead and learn the truth.”
“Whose bag is it?” I said, with the intention of drawing him out.
“It’s Miss Lloyd’s bag,” he said gravely. “Any woman in the world would deny its ownership, in the existing circumstances, and I am not surprised that she did so. Nor do I blame her for doing so. Self preservation is a mighty strong impulse in the human heart, and we’ve all got a right to obey it.”
As I took the gold bag from his hand, I didn’t in the least believe that Florence Lloyd was the owner of it, and I resolved anew to prove this to the satisfaction of everybody concerned.
