“Excuse me, Mr. Porter; no one has as yet voiced a suspicion against
Miss Lloyd. For you to put such a thought into words, is starting a mine
of trouble.”
The older man looked at me indulgently, and I think his shrewd
perceptions told him at once that I was more interested in Miss Lloyd
than a mere detective need be.
“You are right,” he said; “but I considered this a confidential
session.”
“It is,” broke in Mr. Goodrich, “and if you will stay, Mr. Porter, I
shall be glad to have you listen to whatever Mr. Burroughs has to tell
us, and then give us the benefit of your advice.”
I practically echoed the district attorney's words, for I knew Lemuel
Porter to be a clear-headed and well-balanced business man, and his
opinions well worth having.
So it was to two very interested hearers that I related first the story
of Florence's coming downstairs at eleven o'clock on the fatal night,
for a final endeavor to gain her uncle's consent to her betrothal.
“Then it was her bag!” exclaimed Mr. Porter. “I thought so all the
time.”