Learning at the desk that the lady was really there, I sent my card up
to her with a request for an immediate audience, and very soon I was
summoned to her apartment.
She greeted me with that air of frigid reserve typical of an English
woman. Though not unattractive to look at, she possessed the high
cheekbones and prominent teeth which are almost universal in the women
of her nation. She was perhaps between thirty and forty years old, and
had the air of a grande dame.
“Mr. Burroughs?” she said, looking through her lorgnon at my card, which
she held in her hand.
“Yes,” I assented, and judging from her appearance that she was a woman
of a decided and straightforward nature I came at once to the point.
“I'm a detective, madam,” I began, and the remark startled her out of
her calm.
“A detective!” she cried out, with much the same tone as if I had said a
rattlesnake.
“Do not be alarmed, I merely state my profession to explain my errand.”
“Not be alarmed! when a detective comes to see me! How can I help it?
Why, I've never had such an experience before. It is shocking! I've met
many queer people in the States, but not a detective! Reporters are bad
enough!”
“Don't let it disturb you so, Mrs. Purvis. I assure you there is nothing
to trouble you in the fact of my presence here, unless it is trouble of
your own making.”
“Trouble of my own making!” she almost shrieked. “Tell me at once what
you mean, or I shall ring the bell and have you dismissed.”
Her fear and excitement made me think that perhaps I was on the track
of new developments, and lest she should carry out her threat of ringing
the bell, I plunged at once into the subject.
“Mrs. Purvis, have you lost a gold-mesh bag?” I said bluntly.
“No, I haven't,” she snapped, “and if I had, I should take means to
recover it, and not wait for a detective to come and ask me about it.”
I was terribly disappointed. To be sure she might be telling a falsehood
about the bag, but I didn't think so. She was angry, annoyed, and a
little frightened at my intrusion, but she was not at all embarrassed at
my question.
“Are you quite sure you have not lost a gold-link bag?” I insisted, as
if in idiotic endeavor to persuade her to have done so.
“Of course I'm sure,” she replied, half laughing now; “I suppose I
should know it if I had done so.”
“It's a rather valuable bag,” I went on, “with a gold frame-work and
gold chain.”
“Well, if it's worth a whole fortune, it isn't my bag,” she declared;
“for I never owned such a one.”
“Well,” I said, in desperation, “your visiting card is in it.”
“My visiting card!” she said, with an expression of blank wonderment.
“Well, even if that is true, it doesn't make it my bag. I frequently
give my cards to other people.”
This seemed to promise light at last. Somehow I couldn't doubt her
assertion that it was not her bag, and yet the thought suddenly occurred
to me if she were clever enough to be implicated in the Crawford
tragedy, and if she had left her bag there, she would be expecting this
inquiry, and would probably be clever enough to have a story prepared.
“Mrs. Purvis, since you say it is not your bag, I'm going to ask you, in
the interests of justice, to help me all you can.”
“I'm quite willing to do so, sir. What is it you wish to know?”
“A crime has been committed in a small town in New Jersey. A gold-link
bag was afterward discovered at the scene of the crime, and though none
of its other contents betokened its owner, a visiting card with your
name on it was in the bag.”
Becoming interested in the story, Mrs. Purvis seemed to get over her
fright, and was exceedingly sensible for a woman.
“It certainly is not my bag, Mr. Burroughs, and if my card is in it, I
can only say that I must have given that card to the lady who owns the
bag.”
This seemed distinctly plausible, and also promised further information.
“Do you remember giving your card to any lady with such a bag?”
Mrs. Purvis smiled. “So many of your American women carry those bags,”
she said; “they seem to be almost universal this year. I have probably
given my card to a score of ladies, who immediately put it into just
such a bag.”
“Could you tell me who they are?”
“No, indeed;” and Mrs. Purvis almost laughed outright, at what was
doubtless a foolish question.
“But can't you help me in any way?” I pleaded.
“I don't really see how I can,” she replied. “You see I have so many
friends in New York, and they make little parties for me, or afternoon
teas. Then I meet a great many American ladies, and we often exchange
cards. But we do it so often that of course I can't remember every
particular instance. Have you the card you speak of?”
I thanked my stars that I had been thoughtful enough to obtain the card
before leaving West Sedgwick, and taking it from my pocket-book, I gave
it to her.
“Oh, that one!” she said; “perhaps I can help you a little, Mr.
Burroughs. That is an old-fashioned card, one of a few left over from an
old lot. I have been using them only lately, because my others gave
out. I have really gone much more into society in New York than I had
anticipated, and my cards seemed fairly to melt away. I ordered some new
ones here, but before they were sent to me I was obliged to use a few of
these old-fashioned ones. I don't know that this would help you, but I
think I can tell pretty nearly to whom I gave those cards.”
It seemed a precarious sort of a chance, but as I talked with Mrs.
Purvis, I felt more and more positive that she herself was not
implicated in the Crawford case. However, it was just as well to make
certain. She had gone to her writing-desk, and seemed to be looking over
a diary or engagement book.
“Mrs. Purvis,” I said, “will you tell me where you were on Tuesday
evening of last week?”
“Certainly;” and she turned back the leaves of the book. “I went to a
theatre party with my friends, the Hepworths; and afterward, we went to
a little supper at a restaurant. I returned here about midnight. Must I
prove this?” she added, smiling; “for I can probably do so, by the hotel
clerk and by my maid. And, of course, by my friends who gave the party.”
“No, you needn't prove it,” I answered, certain now that she knew
nothing of the Crawford matter; “but I hope you can give me more
information about your card.”
“Why, I remember that very night, I gave my cards to two ladies who were
at the theatre with us; and I remember now that at that time I had only
these old-fashioned cards. I was rather ashamed of them, for Americans
are punctilious in such matters; and now that I think of it, one of the
ladies was carrying a gold-mesh bag.”
“Who was she?” I asked, hardly daring to hope that I had really struck
the trail.
“I can't seem to remember her name, but perhaps it will come to me. It
was rather an English type of name, something like Coningsby.”
“Where did she live?”
“I haven't the slightest idea. You see I meet these ladies so casually,
and I really never expect to see any of them again. Our exchange of
cards is a mere bit of formal courtesy. No, I can't remember her name,
or where she was from. But I don't think she was a New Yorker.”
Truly it was hard to come so near getting what might be vital
information, and yet have it beyond my grasp! It was quite evident that
Mrs. Purvis was honestly trying to remember the lady's name, but could
not do so.
And then I had what seemed to me an inspiration. “Didn't she give you
her card?” I asked.
A light broke over Mrs. Purvis's face. “Why, yes, of course she did! And
I'm sure I can find it.”
She turned to a card-tray, and rapidly running over the bits of
pasteboard, she selected three or four.
“Here they are,” she exclaimed, “all here together. I mean all the cards
that were given me on that particular evening. And here is the name I
couldn't think of. It is Mrs. Cunningham. I remember distinctly that
she carried a gold bag, and no one else in the party did, for we were
admiring it. And here is her address on the card; Marathon Park, New
Jersey.”
I almost fainted, myself, with the suddenness of the discovery. Had
I really found the name and address of the owner of the gold bag? Of
course there might be a slip yet, but the evidence seemed clear that
Mrs. Cunningham, of Marathon Park, owned the bag that had been the
subject of so much speculation.
I had no idea where Marathon Park might be, but that was a mere detail.
I thanked Mrs. Purvis sincerely for the help she had given me, and I
was glad I had not told her that her casual acquaintance was perhaps
implicated in a murder mystery.