I had about decided to go in search of Parmalee, and 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?”
“No, sir. I walked around the other side. I--”
“Stop, Louis! You're not telling the truth. You did walk around by the
office, and you dropped your transfer there. It never blew all around
the house, as you have said it did.”
A look of dogged obstinacy came into the man's eyes, but he did not look
at me. He shifted his gaze uneasily, as he repeated almost in a singsong
way, “go round the other side of the house.”
It was a sort of deadlock. Without a witness to the fact, I could not
prove that he had gone by the office windows, though I was sure he had.
But help came from an unexpected quarter.
Elsa had been very quiet during the foregoing conversation, but now
she spoke up suddenly, and said: “He did go round by the office, Mr.
Burroughs, and I saw him.”
I half expected to see Louis turn on the girl in a rage, but the effect
of her speech on him was quite the reverse. He almost collapsed; he
trembled and turned white, and though he tried to speak, he made no
sound. Surely this man was too cowardly for a criminal; but I must learn
the secret of his knowledge.
“Tell me about it, Elsa,” I said, quietly.
“I was looking out at my window, sir, at the back of the house; and I
saw Louis come around the house, and he came around by the office side.”
“You're positive of this, Elsa? you would swear to it? Remember, you are
making an important assertion.”
“I am telling the truth, sir. I saw him plainly as he came around and
entered at the back door.”
“You hear, Louis?” I said sternly. “I believe Elsa's statement rather
than yours, for she tells a straight story, while you are rattled and
agitated, and have all the appearance of concealing something.”
Louis looked helpless. He didn't dare deny Elsa's story, but he would
not confirm it. At last he said, with a glance of hatred at the girl,
“Elsa, she tell that story to make the trouble for me.”
There was something in this. Elsa, I knew, was jealous, and her pride
had been hurt because Louis had taken the rose she gave him, and then
had gone to call on another girl. But I had no reason to doubt Elsa's
statement, and I had every reason to doubt Louis's. I tried to imagine
what Louis's experience had really been, and it suddenly occurred to me,
that though innocent himself of real wrong, he had seen something in the
office, or through the office windows that he wished to keep secret. I
did not for a moment believe that the man had killed his master, so I
concluded he was endeavoring to shield someone else.
“Louis,” I said, suddenly, “I'll tell you what you did. You went around
by the office, you saw a light there late at night, and you naturally
looked in. You saw Mr. Crawford there, and he was perhaps already
killed. You stepped inside and discovered this, and then you came away,
and said nothing about it, lest you yourself be suspected of the crime.
Incidentally you dropped two petals from the rose Elsa had given you.”
Louis's answer to this accusation was a perfect storm of denials,
expressed in voluble French and broken English, but all to the effect
that it was not true, and that if he had seen his master dead, he would
have raised an alarm.
I saw that I had not yet struck the right idea, so I tried again. “Then,
Louis, you must have passed the office before Mr. Crawford was killed,
which is really more probable. Then as you passed the window, you saw
something or someone in the office, and you're not willing to tell about
it. Is this it?”
This again brought forth only incoherent denial, and I could see that
the man was becoming so rattled, it was difficult for him to speak
clearly, had he desired to do so.
“Elsa,” I said, suddenly, “you took that rose from Louis's room. What
did you do with it?”
“I kept,--I mean, I don't know what I did with it,” stammered the girl,
blushing rosy red, and looking shyly at Louis.
I felt sorry to disclose the poor girl's little romance, for it was
easy enough to see that she was in love with the fickle Frenchman,
who evidently did not reciprocate her interest. He looked at her
disdainfully, and she presented a pathetic picture of embarrassment.
But the situation was too serious for me to consider Elsa's sentiments,
and I said, rather sternly: “You do know where it is. You preserved that
rose as a souvenir. Go at once and fetch it.”
It was a chance shot, for I was not at all certain that she had kept
the withered flower, but dominated by my superior will she went away at
once. She returned in a moment with the flower.
Although withered, it was still in fairly good condition; quite enough
so for me to see at a glance that no petals had been detached from it.
The green calyx leaves clung around the bud in such a manner as to prove
positively that the unfolding flower had lost no petal. This settled the
twelfth rose. Wherever those tell-tale petals had come from, they were
not from Louis's rose. I gave the flower back to Elsa, and I said, “take
your flower, my girl, and go away now. I don't want to question you any
more for the present.”
A little bewildered at her sudden dismissal, Elsa went away, and I
turned my attention to the Frenchman.
“Louis,” I began, “this must be settled here and now between us. Either
you must tell me what I want to know, or you must be taken before the
district attorney, and be made to tell him. I have proved to my own
satisfaction that the rose petals in the office were not from the flower
you wore. Therefore I conclude that you did not go into the office that
night, but as you passed the window you did see someone in there with
Mr. Crawford. The hour was later than Mr. Porter's visit, for he had
already gone home, and Lambert had locked the front door and gone to
bed. You came in later, and what you saw, or whom you saw through the
office window so surprised you, or interested you, that you paused to
look in, and there you dropped your transfer.”
Though Louis didn't speak, I could see at once that I was on the right
track at last. The man was shielding somebody. He was unwilling to tell
what he had seen, lest it inculpate someone. Could it be Gregory Hall?
If Hall had come out on a late train, and Louis had seen him there, he
might, perhaps under Hall's coercion, be keeping the fact secret. Again,
if a strange woman with the gold bag had been in the office, that also
would have attracted Louis's attention. Again, and here my heart almost
stopped beating, could he have seen Florence Lloyd in there? But a
second thought put me at ease again. Surely to have seen Florence in
there would have been so usual and natural a sight that it could not
have caused him anxiety. And yet, again, for him to have seen Florence
in her uncle's office, would have proved to him that the story she
told at the inquest was false. I must get out of him the knowledge he
possessed, if I had to resort to a sort of third degree. But I might
manage it by adroit questioning.
“I quite understand, Louis, that you are shielding some person. But let
me tell you that it is useless. It is much wiser for you to tell me all
you know, and then I can go to work intelligently to find the man who
murdered Mr. Crawford. You want me to find him, do you not?”
Louis seemed to have found his voice again. “Yes, sir, of course he must
be found. Of course I want him found,--the miscreant, the villain! but,
Mr. Burroughs, sir, what I have see in the office makes nothing to your
search. I simply see Mr. Crawford alive and well. And I pass by. That
fool girl Elsa, she tell you that I pass by, so I may say so. But I see
nothing in the office to alarm me, and if I drop my transfer there, it
is but because I think of him as no consequence, and I let him go.”
“Louis,” and I looked him straight in the eye, “all that sounds
straightforward and true. But, if you saw nothing in the office to
surprise or alarm you, why did you at first deny having passed by the
office at all?”
The man had no answer for this. He was not ingenious in inventing
falsehood, and he stood looking helpless and despairing. I perceived I
should have to go on with my questioning.
“Was it a man or a woman you saw in there with Mr. Crawford?”
“I see nobody, sir, nobody but my master.”
That wouldn't do, then. As long as I asked him direct questions he could
answer falsely. I must trip him up in some roundabout way.
“Yes,” I said pleasantly, “I understand that. And what was Mr. Crawford
doing?”
“He sat at his desk;” and Louis spoke slowly, and picked his words with
care.
“Was he writing?”
“No; that is, yes, sir, he was writing.”
I now knew he was not writing, for the truth had slipped out before the
man could frame up his lie. I believed I was going to learn something at
last, if I could make the man tell. Surely the testimony of one who saw
Joseph Crawford late that night was of value, and though that testimony
was difficult to obtain, it was well worth the effort.
“And was Mr. Hall at his desk also?”
Louis stared at me. “Mr. Hall, he was in New York that night.” This was
said so simply and unpremeditatedly, that I was absolutely certain it
was not Hall whom Louis had seen there.
“Oh, yes, of course, so he was,” I said lightly; “and Mr. Crawford was
writing, was he?”
“Yes, sir,” spoken with the dogged scowl which I was beginning to learn
always accompanied Louis's untruthful statements.
And now I decided to put my worst fear to the test and have it over
with. It must be done, and I felt sure I could do it, but oh, how I
dreaded it!
“Did Mr. Crawford look up or see you?”
“No, sir.”
“And didn't Miss Florence see you, either?”
“No, sir.”
It was out. The mere fact that Louis answered that question so calmly
and unconsciously proved he was telling the truth. But what a truth! for
it told me at the same time that Florence Lloyd was in the office with
her uncle, that Louis had seen her, but that she had not seen him. I had
learned the truth from my reading of the man's expression and demeanor,
and though it made my heart sink, I didn't for a moment doubt that it
was the truth.
Of course Louis realized the next instant what he had done, and again he
began his stammering denials. “Of course, Miss Lloyd do not see me for
she is not there. How can she see me, then? I tell you my master was
alone!”
Had I been the least uncertain, this would have convinced me that I was
right. For Louis's voice rose almost to a shriek, so angry was he with
himself for having made the slip.
“Give it up, Louis,” I said; “you have let out the truth, now be quiet.
You couldn't help it, man, you were bound to trip yourself up sooner
or later. You put up a good fight for Miss Florence, and now that I
understand why you told your falsehoods, I can't help admiring your
chivalry. You saw Miss Lloyd there that evening, you heard her next day
at the inquest deny having been in the office in the evening. So, in
a way, it was very commendable on your part to avoid contradicting her
testimonies, with your own. But you are not clever enough, Louis, to
carry out that deceit to the end. And now that you have admitted that
you saw Miss Lloyd there, you can best help her cause, and best help me
to help her cause, by telling me all about it. For rest assured, Louis,
that I am quite as anxious to prove Miss Lloyd's innocence as you can
possibly be, and the only way to accomplish that end, is to learn as
much of the truth as I possibly can. Now, tell me what she was doing.”
“Only talking to her uncle, sir.” Louis had the air of a defeated man.
He had tried to shield Miss Lloyd's name and had failed. Now he spoke
sullenly, and as if his whole cause were lost.
“And Mr. Crawford was talking to her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He was not writing, then?”
“No, sir.”
“Did they seem to be having an amicable conversation?”
Louis hesitated, and his hesitation was sufficient answer.
“Never mind,” I said, “you need not tell me more. In fact, I would
prefer to get the rest of the story from Miss Lloyd, herself.”
Louis looked startled. “Don't tell Miss Lloyd I told you this,” he
begged; “I have try very hard not to tell you.”
“I know you tried hard, Louis, not to tell me, and it was not your fault
that I wrung the truth from you. I will not tell Miss Lloyd that you
told me, unless it should become necessary, and I do not think it will.
Go away now, Louis, and do not discuss this matter with anybody at all.
And, also, do not think for a moment that you have been disloyal in
telling me that you saw Miss Lloyd. As I say, you couldn't help it. I
should simply have kept at you until I made you tell, so you need not
blame yourself in the matter at all.”
Louis went away, and though I could see that he believed what I said,
he had a dejected air, and I couldn't help feeling sorry for the man who
had so inadvertently given me the knowledge that must be used against
the beautiful girl who had herself given untrue testimony.