by Marion Bryce
My heart rejoiced at the idea that Florence was not in love with Hall, but I did not allow myself to dwell on that point, for I was determined to go on with the work, irrespective of my feelings toward her.
“You see,” Parmalee went on, “you suspect Hall, only because you’re prejudiced against him.”
“Good gracious!” I exclaimed; “that’s an awful thing to say, Parmalee. The idea of a detective suspecting a man, merely because he doesn’t admire his personality! And besides, it isn’t true. If I suspect Hall, it’s because I think he had a strong motive, a possible opportunity, and more than all, because he refuses to tell where he was Tuesday night.”
“But that’s just the point, Burroughs. A man who’ll commit murder would fix up his alibi first of all. He would know that his refusal to tell his whereabouts would be extremely suspicious. No, to my mind it’s Hall’s refusal to tell that stamps him as innocent.”
“Then, in that case, it’s the cleverest kind of an alibi he could invent, for it stamps him innocent at once.”
“Oh, come, now, that’s going pretty far; but I will say, Burroughs, that you haven’t the least shred of proof against Hall, and you know it. Prejudice and unfounded suspicion and even a strong desire that he should be the villain, are all very well. But they won’t go far as evidence in a court of law.”
I was forced to admit that Parmalee was right, and that so far I had no proof whatever that Gregory Hall was at all implicated in Mr. Crawford’s death. To be sure he might have worn a yellow rose, and he might have brought the late newspaper, but there was no evidence to connect him with those clues, and too, there was the gold bag. It was highly improbable that that should have been brought to the office and left there by a man.
However, I persuaded Parmalee to agree not to carry the matter to Mr. Goodrich until I had had one more interview with Miss Lloyd, and I promised to undertake that the next morning.
After Parmalee had gone, I indulged in some very gloomy reflections. Everything seemed to point one way. Every proof, every suspicion and every hint more or less implicated Miss Lloyd.
But the more I realized this, the more I determined to do all I could for her, and as to do this, I must gain her confidence, and even liking, I resolved to approach the subject the next day with the utmost tactfulness and kindliness, hoping by this means to induce the truth from her.
The next morning I started on my mission with renewed hopefulness. Reaching the Crawford house, I asked for Miss Lloyd, and I was shown into a small parlor to wait for her. It was a sort of morning room, a pretty little apartment that I had not been in before; and it was so much more cheerful and pleasant than the stately library, I couldn’t help hoping that Miss Lloyd, too, would prove more amenable than she had yet been.
She soon came in, and though I was beginning to get accustomed to the fact that she was a creature of variable moods, I was unprepared for this one. Her hauteur had disappeared; she was apparently in a sweet and gentle frame of mind. Her large dark eyes were soft and gentle, and though her red lips quivered, it was not with anger or disdain as they had done the day before. She wore a plain white morning gown, and a long black necklace of small beads. The simplicity of this costume suited her well, and threw into relief her own rich coloring and striking beauty.
She greeted me more pleasantly than she had ever done before, and I couldn’t help feeling that the cheerful sunny little room had a better effect on her moods than the darker furnishings of the library.
“I wish,” I began, “that we had not to talk of anything unpleasant this morning. I wish there were no such thing as untruth or crime in the world, and that I were calling on you, as an acquaintance, as a friend might call.”
“I wish so, too,” she responded, and as she flashed a glance at me, I had a glimpse of what it might mean to be friends with Florence Lloyd without the ugly shadow between us that now was spoiling our tête-à-tête.
Just that fleeting glance held in it the promise of all that was attractive, charming and delightful in femininity. It was as if the veil of the great, gloomy sorrow had been lifted for a moment, and she was again an untroubled, merry girl. It seemed too, as if she wished that we could be together under pleasanter circumstances and could converse on subjects of less dreadful import. However, all these thoughts that tumultuously raced through my mind must be thrust aside in favor of the business in hand.
So though I hated to, I began at once.
“I am sorry, Miss Lloyd, to doubt your word, but I want to tell you myself rather than to have you learn it from others that I have a witness who has testified to your presence in your uncle’s office that fateful Tuesday night, although you have said you didn’t go down there.”
As I had feared, the girl turned white and shivered as if with a dreadful apprehension.
“Who is the witness?” she said.
I seemed to read her mind, and I felt at once that to her, the importance of what I had said depended largely on my answer to this question, and I paused a moment to think what this could mean. And then it flashed across me that she was afraid I would say the witness was Gregory Hall. I became more and more convinced that she was shielding Hall, and I felt sure that when she learned it was not he, she would feel relieved. However, I had promised Louis not to let her know that he had told me of seeing her, unless it should be necessary.
“I think I won’t tell you that; but since you were seen in the office at about eleven o’clock, will you not tell me,—I assure you it is for your own best interests,—what you were doing there, and why you denied being there?”
“First tell me the name of your informer;” and so great was her agitation that she scarcely breathed the words.
“I prefer not to do so, but I may say it is a reliable witness and one who gave his evidence most unwillingly.”
“Well, if you will not tell me who he was, will you answer just one question about him? Was it Mr. Hall?”
“No; it was not Mr. Hall.”
As I had anticipated, she showed distinctly her relief at my answer. Evidently she dreaded to hear Hall’s name brought into the conversation.
“And now, Miss Lloyd, I ask you earnestly and with the best intent, please to tell me the details of your visit to Mr. Crawford that night in his office.”
She sat silent for a moment, her eyes cast down, the long dark lashes lying on her pale cheeks. I waited patiently, for I knew she was struggling with a strong emotion of some sort, and I feared if I hurried her, her gentle mood would disappear, and she might again become angry or haughty of demeanor.
At last she spoke. The dark lashes slowly raised, and she seemed even more gentle than at first.
“I must tell you,” she said. “I see I must. But don’t repeat it, unless it is necessary. Detectives have to know things, but they don’t have to tell them, do they?”
“We never repeat confidences, Miss Lloyd,” I replied, “except when necessary to further the cause of right and justice.”
“Truly? Is that so?”
She brightened up so much that I began to hope she had only some trifling matter to tell of.
“Well, then,” she went on, “I will tell you, for I know it need not be repeated in the furtherance of justice. I did go down to my uncle’s office that night, after Mrs. Pierce had been to my room; and it was I—it must have been I—who dropped those rose petals.”
“And left the bag,” I suggested.
“No,” she said, and her face looked perplexed, but not confused. “No, the bag is not mine, and I did not leave it there. I know nothing of it, absolutely nothing. But I did go to the office at about eleven o’clock. I had a talk with my uncle, and I left him there a half-hour later—alive and well as when I went in.”
“Was your conversation about your engagement?”
“Yes.”
“Was it amicable?”
“No, it was not! Uncle Joseph was more angry than I had ever before seen him. He declared he intended to make a new will the
next morning, which would provide only a small income for me. He said this was not revenge or punishment for my loyalty to Mr. Hall, but—but—”
“But what?” I urged gently.
“It scarcely seems loyal to Mr. Hall for me to say it,” she returned, and the tears were in her eyes. “But this is all confidential. Well, Uncle Joseph said that Gregory only wanted to marry me for my fortune, and that the new will would prove this. Of course I denied that Mr. Hall was so mercenary, and then we had a good deal of an altercation. But it was not very different from many discussions we had had on the same subject, only Uncle was more decided, and said he had asked Mr. Randolph to come the next morning and draw up the new will. I left him still angry—he wouldn’t even say good-night to me—and now I blame myself for not being more gentle, and trying harder to make peace. But it annoyed me to have him call Gregory mercenary—”
“Because you knew it was true,” I said quietly.
She turned white to the very lips. “You are unnecessarily impertinent,” she said.
“I am,” I agreed. “I beg your pardon.” But I had discovered that she did realize her lover’s true nature.
“And then you went to your room, and stayed there?” I went on, with a meaning emphasis on the last clause.
“Yes,” she said; “and so, you see, what I have told you casts no light on the mystery. I only told you so as to explain the bits of the yellow rose. I feared, from what you said, that Mr. Hall’s name might possibly be brought into discussion.”
“Why, he was not in West Sedgwick that night,” I said.
“Where was he?” she countered quickly.
“I don’t know. He refuses to tell. Of course you must see that his absolute refusal to tell where he was that night is, to say the least, an unwise proceeding.”
“He won’t even tell me where he was,” she said, sighing. “But it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t here.”
“That’s just it,” I rejoined. “If he was not here, it would be far better for him to tell where he really was. For the refusal to tell raises a question that will not be downed, except by an alibi. I don’t want to be cruel, Miss Lloyd, but I must make you see that as the inquiry proceeds, the actions of both Mr. Hall and yourself will be subjected to very close scrutiny, and though perhaps undue attention will be paid to trifles, yet the trifles must be explained.”
I was so sorry for the girl, that, in my effort not to divulge my too great sympathy, I probably used a sterner tone than I realized.
At any rate, I had wakened her at last to a sense of the danger that threatened her and her lover, and now, if she would let me, I would do all in my power to save them both. But I must know all she could tell me.
“When did Mr. Hall leave you?” I asked.
“You mean the day—last Tuesday?”
“Yes?”
“He left here about half-past five. He had been in the office with Uncle Joseph all the afternoon, and at five o’clock he came in here for a cup of tea with me. He almost always comes in at tea-time. Then he left about half-past five, saying he was going to New York on the six o’clock train.”
“For what purpose?”
“I never ask him questions like that. I knew he was to attend to some business for Uncle the next day, but I never ask him what he does evenings when he is in the city, or at any time when he is not with me.”
“But surely one might ask such questions of the man to whom she is betrothed.”
Miss Lloyd again put on that little air of hauteur which always effectually stopped my “impertinence.”
“It is not my habit,” she said. “What Gregory wishes me to know he tells me of his own accord.”
XIV. MR. PORTER’S VIEWS
I began on a new tack.
“Miss Lloyd, why did you tell an untruth, and say you did not come down-stairs again, after going up at ten o’clock?”
Her hauteur disappeared. A frightened, appealing look came into her eyes, and she looked to me like a lovely child afraid of unseen dangers.
“I was afraid,” she confessed. “Yes, truly, I was afraid that they would think I had something to do with the—with Uncle Joseph’s death. And as I didn’t think it could do any good to tell of my little visit to him, I just said I didn’t come down. Oh, I know it was a lie—I know it was wicked—but I was so frightened, and it was such an easy way out of it, just to deny it.”
“And why have you confessed it to me now?”
Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“I told you why,” she said: “so you would know where the rose leaves came from, and not suspect Gregory.”
“Do you suspect him?”
“N-no, of course not. But others might.”
It is impossible to describe the dismay that smote my heart at the hesitation of this answer. It was more than hesitation. It was a conflict of unspoken impulses, and the words, when they were uttered, seemed to carry hidden meanings, and to my mind they carried the worst and most sinister meaning conceivable.
To me, it seemed to point unmistakably to collusion between Florence Lloyd, whom I already loved, and Gregory Hall, whom I already distrusted and disliked. Guilty collusion between these two would explain everything. Theirs the motive, theirs the opportunity, theirs the denials and false witnessing. The gold bag, as yet, remained unexplained, but the yellow rose petals and the late newspaper could be accounted for if Hall had come out on the midnight train, and Florence had helped him to enter and leave the house unseen.
Bah! it was impossible. And, any way, the gold bag remained as proof against this horrid theory. I would pin my faith to the gold bag, and through its presence in the room, I would defy suspicions of the two people I had resolved to protect.
“What do you think about the gold bag?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to think. I hate to accuse Uncle Joseph of such a thing, but it seems as if some woman friend of his must have come to the office after I left. The long French windows were open—it was a warm night, you know—and any one could have come and gone unseen.”
“The bag wasn’t there when you were there?”
“I’m sure it was not! That is, not in sight, and Uncle Joseph was not the sort of man to have such a thing put away in his desk as a souvenir, or for any other reason.”
“Forgive the insinuation, but of course you could not know positively that Mr. Crawford would not have a feminine souvenir in his desk.”
She looked up surprised. “Of course I could not be positive,” she said, “but it is difficult to imagine anything sentimental connected with Uncle Joseph.”
She almost smiled as she said this, for apparently the mere idea was amusing, and I had a flashing glimpse of what it must be to see Florence Lloyd smile! Well it should not be my fault, or due to my lack of exertion, if the day did not come when she should smile again, and I promised myself I should be there to see it. But stifling these thoughts, I brought my mind back to duty. Drawing from my pocket the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford’s desk, I showed it to her.
“In Uncle’s desk!” she exclaimed. “This does surprise me. I had no idea Uncle Joseph had received a photograph from a lady with an affectionate message, too. Are you quite sure it belonged to him?”
“I only know that we found it in his desk, hidden beneath some old letters and papers.”
“Were the letters from this lady?”
“No; in no case could we find a signature that agreed with these initials.”
“Here’s your chance, Mr. Burroughs,” and again Florence Lloyd’s dimples nearly escaped the bondage which held them during these sad days. “If you’re a detective, you ought to gather at once from this photograph and signature all the details about this lady; who she is, and what she had to do with Uncle Joseph.”
“I wish I could do so,” I replied, “but you see, I’m not that kind of detective. I have a friend, Mr. Stone, who could do it, and would tell you, as you say, everything about that lady, merely by looking at her p
icture.”
As a case in point, I told her then and there the story of Fleming Stone’s wonderful deductions from the pair of muddy shoes we had seen in a hotel one morning.
“But you never proved that it was true?” she asked, her dark eyes sparkling with interest, and her face alight with animation.
“No, but it wasn’t necessary. Stone’s deductions are always right, and if not, you know it is the exception that proves the rule.”
“Well, let us try to deduce a little from this picture. I don’t believe for a moment, that Uncle Joseph had a romantic attachment for any lady, though these words on the back of the picture do seem to indicate it.”
“Well, go on,” said I, so carried away by the fascination of the girl, when she had for a moment seemed to forget her troubles, that I wanted to prolong the moment. “Go ahead, and see what inferences you can draw from the photograph.”
“I think she is about fifty years old,” Florence began, “or perhaps fifty-five. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t presume to guess a lady’s age,” I returned, “and beside, I want you to try your powers on this. You may be better at deductions than I am. I have already confessed to you my inability in that direction.”
“Well,” she went on, “I think this lady is rather good-looking, and I think she appreciates the fact.”
“The first is evident on the face of it, and the second is a universal truth, so you haven’t really deduced much as yet.”
“No, that’s so,” and she pouted a little. “But at any rate, I can deduce more about her dress than you can. The picture was taken, or at least that costume was made, about a year ago, for that is the style that was worn then.”
“Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous!”
She flashed me a glance of understanding and appreciation, but undaunted, went on: “The gown also was not made by a competent modiste, but was made by a dressmaker in the house, who came in by the day. The lady is of an economical turn of mind, because the lace yoke of the gown is an old one, and has even been darned to make it presentable to use in the new gown.”
