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, `Good-night, 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 down-stairs 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.