After Louis left me, I felt as if a dead weight had fallen on my heart.
Florence Lloyd had gone down to her uncle's office late that night, and
yet at the inquest she had testified that she had not done so. And
even to me, when talking quietly and alone, she had repeated her false
assertion. This much I knew, but why she had done it, I did not know.
Not until I was forced to do so, would I believe that even her falsehood
in the matter meant that she herself was guilty. There must be some
other reason for her mendacity.
Well, I would find out this reason, and if it were not a creditable one
to her, I would still endeavor to do all I could for her. I longed to
see her, and try if perhaps kind and gentle urging might not elicit
the truth. But she had left me with such an air of haughty disdain, I
hesitated to send for her again just now. And as it was nearly dinner
time, I resolved to go back to my hotel.
On the way, I came to the conclusion that it would do no harm to have a
talk with Parmalee.
I had not much confidence in his detective ability, but he knew the
people better than I did, and might be able to give me information of
some sort.
After I reached the Sedgwick Arms I telephoned Parmalee to come over and
dine with me, and he readily consented.
During dinner I told him all that I had learned from Elsa and Louis.
Of course I had no right to keep this knowledge to myself, and, too, I
wanted Parmalee's opinion on the situation as it stood at present.
“It doesn't really surprise me,” he said, “for I thought all along, Miss
Lloyd was not telling the truth. I'm not yet ready to say that I think
she killed her uncle, although I must say it seems extremely probable.
But if she didn't commit the deed, she knows perfectly well who did.”
“Meaning Hall?”
“No, I don't mean Hall. In fact I don't mean any one in particular.
I think Miss Lloyd was the instigator of the crime, and practically
carried out its commission, but she may have had an assisting agent for
the actual deed.”
“Oh, how you talk! It quite gives me the shivers even to think of a
beautiful young woman being capable of such thoughts or deeds.”
“But, you see, Burroughs, that's because you are prejudiced in favor
of Miss Lloyd. Women are capable of crime as well as men, and sometimes
they're even more clever in the perpetration of it. And you must admit
if ever a woman were capable of crime, Miss Lloyd is of that type.”
“I have to agree to that, Parmalee,” I admitted; “she certainly shows
great strength of character.”
“She shows more than that; she has indomitable will, unflinching
courage, and lots of pluck. If, for any reason, she made up her mind to
kill a man, she'd find a way to do it.”
This talk made me cringe all over, but I couldn't deny it, for so far as
I knew Florence Lloyd, Parmalee's words were quite true.
“All right,” I said, “I'll grant her capability, but that doesn't prove
a thing. I don't believe that girl is guilty, and I hope to prove her
innocence.”
“But look at the evidence, man! She denied her presence in the room, yet
we now know she was there. She denied the ownership of the gold bag,
yet probably she was also untruthful in that matter. She is a woman of
a complex nature, and though I admire her in many ways, I shouldn't care
to have much to do with her.”
“Let us leave out the personal note, Parmalee,” I said, for I was angry
at his attitude toward Florence.
“All right. Don't you think for a moment that I don't see where you
stand with regard to the haughty beauty, but that's neither here nor
there.”
“Indeed it isn't,” I returned; “and whatever may be my personal feeling
toward Miss Lloyd, I can assure you it in no way influences my work on
this case.”
“I believe you, old man; and so I'm sure you will agree with me that
we must follow up the inquiry as to Miss Lloyd's presence in the office
that night. She must be made to talk, and perhaps it would be best to
tell Goodrich all about it, and let him push the matter.”
“Oh, no,” I cried involuntarily. “Don't set him on the track of the poor
girl. That is, Parmalee, let me talk to her again, first. Now that I
know she was down there that night, I think I can question her in
a little different manner, and persuade her to own the truth. And,
Parmalee, perhaps she was down there because Hall was there.”
“Hall! He was in New York.”
“So he says, but why should he speak the truth any more than Miss
Lloyd?”
“You, mean they may both be implicated?”
“Yes; or he may have used her as a tool.”
“Not Florence Lloyd. She's nobody's tool.”
“Any woman might be a tool at the command of the man she loves. But,” I
went on, with an air of conviction which was not entirely genuine, “Miss
Lloyd doesn't love Mr. Hall.”
“I don't know about that,” returned Parmalee; “you can't tell about
a woman like Florence Lloyd. If she doesn't love him, she's at least
putting up a bluff of doing so.”
“I believe it is a bluff, though I'm sure I don't know why she should do
that.”
“On the other hand, why shouldn't she? For some reason she's dead set
on marrying him, ready to give up her fortune to do so, if necessary. He
must have some sort of a pretty strong hold on her.”
“I admit all that, and yet I can't believe she loves him. He's such a
commonplace man.”
“Commonplace doesn't quite describe him. And yet Gregory Hall, with all
the money in the world, could never make himself distinguished or worth
while in any way.”
“No; and what would Miss Florence Lloyd see in a man like that, to make
her so determined to marry him?”
“I don't think she is determined, except that Hall has some sort of hold
over her,--a promise or something,--that she can't escape.”
My heart rejoiced at the idea that Florence was not in love with Hall,
but I did not allow myself to dwell on that point, for I was determined
to go on with the work, irrespective of my feelings toward her.
“You see,” Parmalee went on, “you suspect Hall, only because you're
prejudiced against him.”
“Good gracious!” I exclaimed; “that's an awful thing to say, Parmalee.
The idea of a detective suspecting a man, merely because he doesn't
admire his personality! And besides, it isn't true. If I suspect Hall,
it's because I think he had a strong motive, a possible opportunity, and
more than all, because he refuses to tell where he was Tuesday night.”
“But that's just the point, Burroughs. A man who'll commit murder would
fix up his alibi first of all. He would know that his refusal to tell
his whereabouts would be extremely suspicious. No, to my mind it's
Hall's refusal to tell that stamps him as innocent.”
“Then, in that case, it's the cleverest kind of an alibi he could
invent, for it stamps him innocent at once.”
“Oh, come, now, that's going pretty far; but I will say, Burroughs,
that you haven't the least shred of proof against Hall, and you know
it. Prejudice and unfounded suspicion and even a strong desire that
he should be the villain, are all very well. But they won't go far as
evidence in a court of law.”
I was forced to admit that Parmalee was right, and that so far I had no
proof whatever that Gregory Hall was at all implicated in Mr. Crawford's
death. To be sure he might have worn a yellow rose, and he might have
brought the late newspaper, but there was no evidence to connect
him with those clues, and too, there was the gold bag. It was highly
improbable that that should have been brought to the office and left
there by a man.
However, I persuaded Parmalee to agree not to carry the matter to Mr.
Goodrich until I had had one more interview with Miss Lloyd, and I
promised to undertake that the next morning.
After Parmalee had gone, I indulged in some very gloomy reflections.
Everything seemed to point one way. Every proof, every suspicion and
every hint more or less implicated Miss Lloyd.
But the more I realized this, the more I determined to do all I could
for her, and as to do this, I must gain her confidence, and even
liking, I resolved to approach the subject the next day with the utmost
tactfulness and kindliness, hoping by this means to induce the truth
from her.
The next morning I started on my mission with renewed hopefulness.
Reaching the Crawford house, I asked for Miss Lloyd, and I was shown
into a small parlor to wait for her. It was a sort of morning room, a
pretty little apartment that I had not been in before; and it was so
much more cheerful and pleasant than the stately library, I couldn't
help hoping that Miss Lloyd, too, would prove more amenable than she had
yet been.
She soon came in, and though I was beginning to get accustomed to the
fact that she was a creature of variable moods, I was unprepared for
this one. Her hauteur had disappeared; she was apparently in a sweet
and gentle frame of mind. Her large dark eyes were soft and gentle, and
though her red lips quivered, it was not with anger or disdain as they
had done the day before. She wore a plain white morning gown, and a long
black necklace of small beads. The simplicity of this costume suited her
well, and threw into relief her own rich coloring and striking beauty.
She greeted me more pleasantly than she had ever done before, and I
couldn't help feeling that the cheerful sunny little room had a better
effect on her moods than the darker furnishings of the library.
“I wish,” I began, “that we had not to talk of anything unpleasant this
morning. I wish there were no such thing as untruth or crime in the
world, and that I were calling on you, as an acquaintance, as a friend
might call.”
“I wish so, too,” she responded, and as she flashed a glance at me, I
had a glimpse of what it might mean to be friends with Florence
Lloyd without the ugly shadow between us that now was spoiling our
tete-a-tete.
Just that fleeting glance held in it the promise of all that was
attractive, charming and delightful in femininity. It was as if the veil
of the great, gloomy sorrow had been lifted for a moment, and she was
again an untroubled, merry girl. It seemed too, as if she wished that we
could be together under pleasanter circumstances and could converse
on subjects of less dreadful import. However, all these thoughts that
tumultuously raced through my mind must be thrust aside in favor of the
business in hand.
So though I hated to, I began at once.
“I am sorry, Miss Lloyd, to doubt your word, but I want to tell you
myself rather than to have you learn it from others that I have a
witness who has testified to your presence in your uncle's office that
fateful Tuesday night, although you have said you didn't go down there.”
As I had feared, the girl turned white and shivered as if with a
dreadful apprehension.
“Who is the witness?” she said.
I seemed to read her mind, and I felt at once that to her, the
importance of what I had said depended largely on my answer to this
question, and I paused a moment to think what this could mean. And then
it flashed across me that she was afraid I would say the witness was
Gregory Hall. I became more and more convinced that she was shielding
Hall, and I felt sure that when she learned it was not he, she would
feel relieved. However, I had promised Louis not to let her know that he
had told me of seeing her, unless it should be necessary.
“I think I won't tell you that; but since you were seen in the office at
about eleven o'clock, will you not tell me,--I assure you it is for your
own best interests,--what you were doing there, and why you denied being
there?”
“First tell me the name of your informer;” and so great was her
agitation that she scarcely breathed the words.
“I prefer not to do so, but I may say it is a reliable witness and one
who gave his evidence most unwillingly.”
“Well, if you will not tell me who he was, will you answer just one
question about him? Was it Mr. Hall?”
“No; it was not Mr. Hall.”
As I had anticipated, she showed distinctly her relief at my answer.
Evidently she dreaded to hear Hall's name brought into the conversation.
“And now, Miss Lloyd, I ask you earnestly and with the best intent,
please to tell me the details of your visit to Mr. Crawford that night
in his office.”
She sat silent for a moment, her eyes cast down, the long dark lashes
lying on her pale cheeks. I waited patiently, for I knew she was
struggling with a strong emotion of some sort, and I feared if I hurried
her, her gentle mood would disappear, and she might again become angry
or haughty of demeanor.
At last she spoke. The dark lashes slowly raised, and she seemed even
more gentle than at first.
“I must tell you,” she said. “I see I must. But don't repeat it, unless
it is necessary. Detectives have to know things, but they don't have to
tell them, do they?”
“We never repeat confidences, Miss Lloyd,” I replied, “except when
necessary to further the cause of right and justice.”
“Truly? Is that so?”
She brightened up so much that I began to hope she had only some
trifling matter to tell of.
“Well, then,” she went on, “I will tell you, for I know it need not
be repeated in the furtherance of justice. I did go down to my uncle's
office that night, after Mrs. Pierce had been to my room; and it was
I--it must have been I--who dropped those rose petals.”
“And left the bag,” I suggested.
“No,” she said, and her face looked perplexed, but not confused. “No,
the bag is not mine, and I did not leave it there. I know nothing of it,
absolutely nothing. But I did go to the office at about eleven
o'clock. I had a talk with my uncle, and I left him there a half-hour
later--alive and well as when I went in.”
“Was your conversation about your engagement?”
“Yes.”
“Was it amicable?”
“No, it was not! Uncle Joseph was more angry than I had ever before seen
him. He declared he intended to make a new will the next morning, which
would provide only a small income for me. He said this was not revenge
or punishment for my loyalty to Mr. Hall, but--but--”
“But what?” I urged gently.
“It scarcely seems loyal to Mr. Hall for me to say it,” she returned,
and the tears were in her eyes. “But this is all confidential. Well,
Uncle Joseph said that Gregory only wanted to marry me for my fortune,
and that the new will would prove this. Of course I denied that Mr. Hall
was so mercenary, and then we had a good deal of an altercation. But
it was not very different from many discussions we had had on the same
subject, only Uncle was more decided, and said he had asked Mr. Randolph
to come the next morning and draw up the new will. I left him still
angry--he wouldn't even say good-night to me--and now I blame myself for
not being more gentle, and trying harder to make peace. But it annoyed
me to have him call Gregory mercenary--”
“Because you knew it was true,” I said quietly.
She turned white to the very lips. “You are unnecessarily impertinent,”
she said.
“I am,” I agreed. “I beg your pardon.” But I had discovered that she did
realize her lover's true nature.
“And then you went to your room, and stayed there?” I went on, with a
meaning emphasis on the last clause.
“Yes,” she said; “and so, you see, what I have told you casts no light
on the mystery. I only told you so as to explain the bits of the yellow
rose. I feared, from what you said, that Mr. Hall's name might possibly
be brought into discussion.”
“Why, he was not in West Sedgwick that night,” I said.
“Where was he?” she countered quickly.
“I don't know. He refuses to tell. Of course you must see that his
absolute refusal to tell where he was that night is, to say the least,
an unwise proceeding.”
“He won't even tell me where he was,” she said, sighing. “But it doesn't
matter. He wasn't here.”
“That's just it,” I rejoined. “If he was not here, it would be far
better for him to tell where he really was. For the refusal to tell
raises a question that will not be downed, except by an alibi. I don't
want to be cruel, Miss Lloyd, but I must make you see that as the
inquiry proceeds, the actions of both Mr. Hall and yourself will be
subjected to very close scrutiny, and though perhaps undue attention
will be paid to trifles, yet the trifles must be explained.”
I was so sorry for the girl, that, in my effort not to divulge my too
great sympathy, I probably used a sterner tone than I realized.
At any rate, I had wakened her at last to a sense of the danger that
threatened her and her lover, and now, if she would let me, I would do
all in my power to save them both. But I must know all she could tell
me.
“When did Mr. Hall leave you?” I asked.
“You mean the day--last Tuesday?”
“Yes?”
“He left here about half-past five. He had been in the office with Uncle
Joseph all the afternoon, and at five o'clock he came in here for a
cup of tea with me. He almost always comes in at tea-time. Then he left
about half-past five, saying he was going to New York on the six o'clock
train.”
“For what purpose?”
“I never ask him questions like that. I knew he was to attend to some
business for Uncle the next day, but I never ask him what he does
evenings when he is in the city, or at any time when he is not with me.”
“But surely one might ask such questions of the man to whom she is
betrothed.”
Miss Lloyd again put on that little air of hauteur which always
effectually stopped my “impertinence.”
“It is not my habit,” she said. “What Gregory wishes me to know he tells
me of his own accord.”