MR. PORTER'S VIEWS
I began on a new tack.
"Miss Lloyd, why did you tell an untruth, and say you did not come down-stairs again, after going up at ten o'clock?"
Her hauteur disappeared. A frightened, appealing look came into her eyes, and she looked to me like a lovely child afraid of unseen dangers.
"I was afraid," she confessed. "Yes, truly, I was afraid that they would think I had something to do with the - with Uncle Joseph's death. And as I didn't think it could do any good to tell of my little visit to him, I just said I didn't come down.
Oh, I know it was a lie - I know it was wicked - but I was so frightened, and it was such an easy way out of it, just to deny it."
"And why have you confessed it to me now?"
Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.
"I told you why," she said: "so you would know where the rose leaves came from, and not suspect Gregory."
"Do you suspect him?"
"N-no, of course not. But others might."
It is impossible to describe the dismay that smote my heart at the hesitation of this answer. It was more than hesitation. It was a conflict of unspoken impulses, and the words, when they were uttered, seemed to carry hidden meanings, and to my mind they carried the worst and most sinister meaning conceivable.
To me, it seemed to point unmistakably to collusion between Florence Lloyd, whom I already loved, and Gregory Hall, whom I already distrusted and disliked. Guilty collusion between these two would explain everything. Theirs the motive, theirs the opportunity, theirs the denials and false witnessing. The gold bag, as yet, remained unexplained, but the yellow rose petals and the late newspaper could be accounted for if Hall had come out on the midnight train, and Florence had helped him to enter and leave the house unseen.
Bah! it was impossible. And, any way, the gold bag remained as proof against this horrid theory. I would pin my faith 1o the gold bag, and through its presence in the room, I would defy suspicions of the two people I had resolved to protect.
"What do you think about the gold bag?" I asked.
"I don't know what to think. I hate to accuse Uncle Joseph of such a thing, but it seems as if some woman friend of his must have come to the office after I left. The long French windows were open - it was a warm night, you know - and any one could have come and gone unseen."
"The bag wasn't there when you were there?"
"I'm sure it was not! That is, not in sight, and Uncle Joseph was not the sort of man to have such a thing put away in his desk as a souvenir, or for any other reason."
"Forgive the insinuation, but of course you could not know positively that Mr. Crawford would not have a feminine souvenir in his desk."
She looked up surprised. "Of course I could not be positive," she said, "but it is difficult to imagine anything sentimental connected with Uncle Joseph."
She almost smiled as she said this, for apparently the mere idea was amusing, and I had a flashing glimpse of what it must be to see Florence Lloyd smile! Well it should not be my fault, or due to my lack of exertion, if the day did not come when she should smile again, and I promised myself I should be there to see it.
But stifling these thoughts, I brought my mind back to duty.
Drawing from my pocket the photograph I had found in Mr.
Crawford's desk, I showed it to her.
"In Uncle's desk!" she exclaimed. "This does surprise me. I had no idea Uncle Joseph had received a photograph from a lady with an affectionate message, too. Are you quite sure it belonged to him.?"
"I only know that we found it in his desk, hidden beneath some old letters and papers."
"Were the letters from this lady?"
"No; in no case could we find a signature that agreed with these initials."
"Here's your chance, Mr. Burroughs," and again Florence Lloyd's dimples nearly escaped the bondage which held them during these sad days. "If you're a detective, you ought to gather at once from this photograph and signature all the details about this lady; who she is, and what she had to do with Uncle Joseph."
"I wish I could do so," I replied, "but you see, I'm not that kind of detective. I have a friend, Mr. Stone, who could do it, and would tell you, as you say, everything about that lady, merely by looking at her picture."
As a case in point, I told her then and there the story of Fleming Stone's wonderful deductions from the pair of muddy shoes we had seen in a hotel one morning.
"But you never proved that it was true?" she asked, her dark eyes sparkling with interest, and her face alight with animation.
"No, but it wasn't necessary. Stone's deductions are always right, and if not, you know it is the exception that proves the rule."
"Well, let us try to deduce a little from this picture. I don't believe for a moment, that Uncle Joseph had a romantic attachment for any lady, though these words on the back of the picture do seem to indicate it."
"Well, go on," said I, so carried away by the fascination of the girl, when she had for a moment seemed to forget her troubles, that I wanted to prolong the moment. "Go ahead, and see what inferences you can draw from the photograph."
"I think she is about fifty years old," Florence began, "or perhaps fifty-five. What do you think?"
"I wouldn't presume to guess a lady's age," I returned, "and beside, I want you to try your powers on this. You may be better at deductions than I am. I have already confessed to you my inability in that direction."
"Well," she went on, "I think this lady is rather good-looking, and I think she appreciates the fact."
"The first is evident on the face of it, and the second is a universal truth, so you haven't really deduced much as yet."
"No, that's so," and she pouted a little. "But at any rate, I can deduce more about her dress than you can. The picture was taken, or at least that costume was made, about a year ago, for that is the style that was worn then."
"Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous!"
