by Marion Bryce
“I don’t know what I believe,” she answered, wearily drawing her hand across her brow. “And I can’t see that it matters anyway. Supposing he did go by the office, you certainly don’t suspect him of my uncle’s murder, do you?”
“It is my duty, Miss Lloyd,” I said gently, for the girl was pitiably nervous, “to get the testimony of any one who was in or near the office that night. But of course testimony is useless unless it is true.”
I looked her straight in the eyes as I said this, for I was thoroughly convinced that her own testimony at the inquest had not been entirely true.
I think she understood my glance, for she arose at once, and said with extreme dignity: “I cannot see any necessity for prolonging this interview, Mr. Burroughs. It is of course your work to discover the truth or falsity of Louis’s story, but I cannot see that it in any way implicates or even interests me.”
The girl was superb. Her beauty was enhanced by the sudden spirit she showed, and her flashing dark eyes suggested a baited animal at bay. Apparently she had reached the limit of her endurance, and was unwilling to be questioned further or drawn into further admissions. And yet, some inexplicable idea came to me that she was angry, not with me, but with the tangle in which I had remorselessly enmeshed her. Of a high order of intelligence, she knew perfectly well that I was conscious of the fact that there was a secret of some sort between her and the valet. Her haughty disdain, I felt sure, was to convey the impression that though there might be a secret between them, it was no collusion or working together, and that though her understanding with the man was mysterious, it was in no way beneath her dignity. Her imperious air as she quietly left the room thrilled me anew, and I began to think that a woman who could assume the haughty demeanor of an empress might have chosen, as empresses had done before her, to commit crime.
However, she went away, and the dark and stately library seemed to have lost its only spot of light and charm. I sat for a few minutes pondering over it all, when I saw passing through the hall, the maid, Elsa. It suddenly occurred to me, that having failed with the mistress of the house, I might succeed better with her maid, so I called the girl in.
She came willingly enough, and though she seemed timid, she was not embarrassed or afraid.
“I’m in authority here,” I said, “and I’m going to ask you some questions, which you must answer truthfully.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, without any show of interest.
“Have you been with Miss Lloyd long?”
“Yes, sir; about four years, sir.”
“Is she a kind mistress?”
“Indeed she is, sir. She is the loveliest lady I ever worked for. I’d do anything for Miss Lloyd, that I would.”
“Well, perhaps you can best serve her by telling all you know about the events of Tuesday night.”
“But I don’t know anything, sir,” and Elsa’s eyes opened wide in absolutely unfeigned wonderment.
“Nothing about the actual murder; no, of course not. But I just want you to tell me a few things about some minor matters. Did you take the yellow flowers from the box that was sent to Miss Lloyd?”
“Yes, sir; I always untie her parcels. And as she was at dinner, I arranged the flowers in a vase of water.”
“How many flowers were there?”
For some reason this simple query disturbed the girl greatly. She flushed scarlet, and then she turned pale. She twisted the corner of her apron in her nervous fingers, and then said, only half audibly, “I don’t know, sir.”
“Oh, yes, you do, Elsa,” I said in kindly tones, being anxious not to frighten her; “tell me how many there were. Were there not a dozen?”
“I don’t know, sir; truly I don’t. I didn’t count them at all.”
It was impossible to disbelieve her; she was plainly telling the truth. And, too, why should she count the roses? The natural thing would be not to count them, but merely to put them in the vase as she had said. And yet, there was something about those flowers that Elsa knew and wouldn’t tell. Could it be that I was on the track of that missing twelfth rose? I knew, though perhaps Elsa did not, how many roses the florist had sent in that box. And unless Gregory Hall had abstracted one at the time of his purchase, the twelfth rose had been taken by some one else after the flowers reached the Crawford House. Could it have been Elsa, and was her perturbation only because of a guilty conscience over a petty theft of a flower? But I realized I must question her adroitly if I would find out these things.
“Is Miss Lloyd fond of flowers?” I asked, casually.
“Oh, yes, sir, she always has some by her.”
“And do you love flowers too, Elsa?”
“Yes, sir.” But the quietly spoken answer, accompanied by a natural and straightforward look promised little for my new theory.
“Does Miss Lloyd sometimes give you some of her flowers?”
“Oh, yes, sir, quite often.”
“That is, if she’s there when they arrive. But if she isn’t there, and you open the box yourself, she wouldn’t mind if you took one or two blossoms, would she?”
“Oh, no, sir, she wouldn’t mind. Miss Lloyd’s awful kind about such things. But I wouldn’t often do it, sir.”
“No; of course not. But you did happen to take one of those yellow roses, didn’t you, though?”
I breathlessly awaited the answer, but to my surprise, instead of embarrassment the girl’s eyes flashed with anger, though she answered quietly enough, “Well, yes, I did, sir.”
Ah, at last I was on the trail of that twelfth rose! But from the frank way in which the girl admitted having taken the flower, I greatly feared that the trail would lead to a commonplace ending.
“What did you do with it?” I said quietly, endeavoring to make the question sound of little importance.
“I don’t want to tell you;” and the pout on her scarlet lips seemed more like that of a wilful child than of one guarding a guilty secret.
“Oh, yes, tell me, Elsa;” and I even descended to a coaxing tone, to win the girl’s confidence.
“Well, I gave it to that Louis.”
“To Louis? and why do you call him that Louis?”
“Oh, because. I gave him the flower to wear because I thought he was going to take me out that evening. He had promised he would, at least he had sort of promised, and then,—and then—”
“And then he took another young lady,” I finished for her in tones of such sympathy and indignation that she seemed to think she had found a friend.
“Yes,” she said, “he went and took another girl riding on the trolley, after he had said he would take me.”
“Elsa,” I said suddenly, and I fear she thought I had lost interest in her broken heart, “did Louis wear that rose you gave him that night?”
“Yes, the horrid man! I saw it in his coat when he went away.”
“And did he wear it home again?”
“How should I know?” Elsa tossed her head with what was meant to be a haughty air, but which was belied by the blush that mantled her cheek at her own prevarication.
“But you do know,” I insisted, gently; “did he wear it when he came home?”
“Yes, he did.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I looked in his room the next day, and I saw it there all withered. He had thrown it on the floor!”
The tragedy in Elsa’s eyes at this awful relation of the cruelty of the sterner sex called for a spoken sympathy, and I said at once, and heartily: “That was horrid of him! If I were you I’d never give him another flower.”
In accordance with the natural impulses of her sex, Elsa seemed pleased at my disapproval of Louis’s behavior, but she by no means looked as if she would never again bestow her favor upon him. She smiled and tossed her head, and seemed willing enough for further conversation, but for the moment I felt that I had enough food for thought. So I dismissed Elsa, having first admonished her not to repeat our conversation to any one. In order to make sure
that I should be obeyed in this matter, I threatened her with some unknown terrors which the law would bring upon her if she disobeyed me. When I felt sure she was thoroughly frightened into secrecy concerning our interview, I sent her away and began to cogitate on what she had told me.
If Louis came to the house late that night, as by his own admission he did; if he went around the house on the side of the office, as the straying transfer seemed to me to prove; and if, at the time, he was wearing in his coat a yellow rose with petals similar to those found on the office floor the next morning, was not one justified in looking more deeply into the record of Louis the valet?
XII. LOUIS’S CONFESSION
Elsa had been gone but a few moments when Florence Lloyd returned to the library. I arose to greet her and marvelled at the change which had come over her. Surely here was a girl of a thousand moods. She had left me with an effect of hauteur and disdain; she returned, gentle and charming, almost humble. I could not understand it, and remained standing after she had seated herself, awaiting developments.
“Sit down, Mr. Burroughs,” she said, and her low, sweet voice seemed full of cordial invitation. “I’m afraid I was rude to you, when I went away just now; and I want to say that if I can tell you anything you wish to know, I should be glad to do so.”
I drew up a chair and seated myself near her. My heart was pounding with excitement at this new phase of the girl’s nature. For an instant it seemed as if she must have a personal kindly feeling toward me, and then my reason returned, and with a suddenly falling heart and slowing pulses, I realized that I was a fool, and that after thinking over the disclosures Louis had made, Miss Lloyd had shrewdly concluded it was to her best advantage to curry favor with the detective. This knowledge came to me instinctively, and so I distrusted her gentle voice and winning smile, and hardening my heart against her, I resolved to turn this new mood of hers to my own advantage, and learn what I could while she was willing to converse:
“I’m glad of this opportunity, Miss Lloyd,” I said, “for there are some phases of this affair that I want to discuss with you alone. Let us talk the matter over quietly. It is as well that you should know that there are some doubts felt as to the entire truth of the story you told at the inquest. I do not say this to frighten you,” I added, as the poor girl clasped her hands and gave me a look of dumb alarm; “but, since it is so, I want to do all I can to set the matter right. Do you remember exactly all that took place, to your knowledge, on the night of your uncle’s death?”
“Yes,” she replied, looking more frightened still. It was evident that she knew more than she had yet revealed, but I almost forgot my inquiry, so absorbed was I in watching her lovely face. It was even more exquisite in its terrified pallor than when the fleeting pink showed in her cheeks.
“Then,” I said, “let us go over it. You heard your uncle go out at about eight o’clock and return about nine?”
“Yes, I heard the front door open and close both times.”
“You and Mrs. Pierce being in the music-room, of course. Then, later, you heard a visitor enter, and again you heard him leave?”
“Yes—Mr. Porter.”
“Did you know it was Mr. Porter, at the time he was here?”
“No; I think not. I didn’t think at all who it might be. Uncle Joseph often had men to call in the evening.”
“About what time did Mr. Porter leave?”
“A few minutes before ten. I heard Lambert say, ‘Goodnight, sir,’ as he closed the door after him.”
“And soon after, you and Mrs. Pierce went upstairs?”
“Yes; only a few minutes after.”
“And, later, Mrs. Pierce came to your room?”
“Yes; about half-past ten, I should say; she came to get a book. She didn’t stay two minutes.”
“And after that, you went downstairs again to speak to your uncle?” For the merest instant Miss Lloyd’s eyes closed and she swayed as if about to faint, but she regained her composure at once, and answered with some asperity,
“I did not. I have told you that I did not leave my room again that night.”
Her dark eyes blazed, her cheeks flushed, and though her full lower lip quivered it was with anger now, not fear.
As I watched her, I wondered how I could have thought her more beautiful when pale. Surely with this glowing color she was at her glorious best.
“Then when did you drop the two rose petals there?” I went on, calmly enough, though my own heart was beating fast.
“I did not drop them. They were left there by some intruder.”
“But, Miss Lloyd,” and I observed her closely, “the petals were from a rose such as those Mr. Hall sent you that evening. The florist assures me there were no more such blossoms in West Sedgwick at that time. The fallen petals, then, were from one of your own roses, or—”
“Or?” asked Miss Lloyd, her hands pressed against the laces at her throbbing bosom. “Or?”
“Or,” I went on, “from a rose worn by some one who had come out from New York on a late train.”
For the moment I chose to ignore Louis’s rose for I wanted to learn anything Miss Lloyd could tell me. And, too, the yellow petals might have fallen from a flower in Hall’s coat after all. I thought it possible by suggesting this idea, to surprise from her some hint as to whether she had any suspicion of him.
She gave a gasp, and, leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes, as if spent with a useless struggle.
“Wait a moment,” she said, putting out her hand with an imploring gesture. “Wait a moment. Let me think. I will tell you all, but—wait—”
With her eyes still closed, she lay back against the satin chair cushion, and I gazed at her, fascinated.
I knew it! Then and there the knowledge came to me! Not her guilt, not her innocence. The crime seemed far away then, but I knew like a flash not only that I loved this girl, this Florence Lloyd, but that I should never love any one else. It mattered not that she was betrothed to another man; the love that had suddenly sprung to life in my heart was such pure devotion that it asked no return. Guilty or innocent, I loved her. Guilty or innocent, I would clear her; and if the desire of her heart were toward another, she should ever know or suspect my adoration for her.
I gazed at her lovely face, knowing that when her eyes opened I must discreetly turn my glance aside, but blessing every instant of opportunity thus given me.
Her countenance, though troubled and drawn with anxiety, was so pure and sweet that I felt sure of her innocence. But it should be my work to prove that to the world.
Suddenly her eyes flashed open; again her mood had changed.
“Mr. Burroughs,” she said, and there was almost a challenge in her tone, “why do you ask me these things? You are a detective, you are here to find out for yourself, not to ask others to find out. I am innocent of my uncle’s death, of course, but when you cast suspicion on the man to whom I am betrothed, you cannot expect me to help you confirm that suspicion. You have made me think by your remark about a man on a late train that you refer to Mr. Hall. Do you?”
This was a change of base, indeed. I was being questioned instead of doing the catechising myself. Very well; if it were my lady’s will to challenge me, I would meet her on her own ground.
“You took the hint very quickly,” I said. “Had you thought of such a possibility before?”
“No, nor do I now. I will not.” Again she was the offended queen. “But since you have breathed the suggestion, you may not count on any help from me.”
“Could you have helped me otherwise?” I said, detaining her as she swept by.
To this she made no answer, but again her face wore a troubled expression, and as she went slowly from the room, she left me with a strong conviction that she knew far more about Gregory Hall’s connection with the matter than she had told me.
I sat alone for a few moments wondering what I had better do next.
I had about decided to go in search of Parmalee, an
d talk things over with him, but I thought it would be better to see Louis first, and settle up the matter of his rose more definitely. Accordingly I rang the bell, and when the parlor maid answered it, I asked her to send both Louis and Elsa to me in the library.
I could see at once that these two were not friendly toward each other, and I hoped this fact would aid me in learning the truth from them.
“Now, Louis,” I began, “you may as well tell me the truth about your home coming last Tuesday night. In the first place, you must admit that you were wearing in your coat one of the yellow roses which had been sent to Miss Lloyd.”
“No, no, indeed!” declared Louis, giving Elsa a threatening glance, as if forbidding her to contradict him.
“Nonsense, man,” I said; “don’t stand there and tell useless lies. It will not help you. The best thing you can do for yourself and for all concerned is to tell the truth. And, moreover, if you don’t tell it to me now, you will have to tell it to Mr. Goodrich, later. Elsa gave you a yellow rose and you wore it away that evening when you went to see your young lady. Now what became of that rose?”
“I—I lost it, sir.”
“No, you didn’t lose it. You wore it home again, and when you retired, you threw it on the floor, in your own room.”
“No, sir. You make mistake. I look for him next day in my room, but cannot find him.”
I almost laughed at the man’s ingenuousness. He contradicted his own story so unconsciously, that I began to think he was more of a simpleton than a villain.
“Of course you couldn’t find it,” I informed him, “for it was taken from your room next day; and of course you didn’t look for it until after you had heard yellow roses discussed at the inquest.”
Louis’s easily read face proved my statement correct, but he glowered at Elsa, as he said: “Who take him away? who take my rose from my room.”
“But you denied having a rose, Louis. Now you’re asking who took it away. Once again, let me advise you to tell the truth. You’re not at all successful in telling falsehoods. Now answer me this: When you came home Tuesday night, did you or did you not walk around the house past the office window?”
