“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 went 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 most 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 for 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?”