“No, no!” he exclaimed; “I do not go round by the office, I go the other
side of the house. I have tell you so many times.”
“But I myself picked up your transfer near the office veranda.”
“Then he blow there. The wind blow that night, oh, something fearful! He
blow the paper around the house, I think.”
“I don't think so,” I retorted; “I think you went around the house that
way, I think you paused at the office window--”
Just here I made a dramatic pause myself, hoping thus to appeal to the
emotional nature of my victim. And I succeeded. Louis almost shrieked
as he pressed his hands against his eyes, and cried out: “No! no! I
tell you I did not go round that way! I go round the other way, and the
wind--the wind, he blow my transfer all about!”
I tried a more quiet manner, I tried persuasive arguments, I finally
resorted to severity and even threats, but no admission could I get from
Louis, except that he had not gone round the house by way of the office.
I was positive the man was lying, and I was equally positive that Miss
Lloyd knew he was lying, and that she knew why, but the matter seemed
to me at a deadlock. I could have questioned her, but I preferred to do
that when Louis was not present. If she must suffer ignominy it need not
be before a servant. So I dismissed Louis, perhaps rather curtly, and
turning to Miss Lloyd, I asked her if she believed his assertion that he
did not pass by the office that night.
“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?