For the next day or two the Crawford house presented the appearance usual in any home during the days immediately preceding a funeral.
By tacit consent, all reference to the violence of Mr. Crawford's death was avoided, and a rigorous formality was the keynote of all the ceremonies. The servants were garbed in correct mourning, the ladies of the house refused to see anybody, and all personal callers were met by Philip Crawford or his wife, while business acquaintances were received by Gregory Hall.
As private secretary, of course Mr. Hall was in full charge of Mr. Crawford's papers and personal effects. But, in addition to this, as the prospective husband of the heiress, he was practically the head of the house.
He showed no elation or ostentation at this state of affairs, but carried himself with an air of quiet dignity, tinged with a suggestion of sadness, which, if merely conventional, seemed none the less sincere.
I soon learned that the whole social atmosphere of West Sedgwick was one of extreme formality, and everything was done in accordance with the most approved conventions. Therefore, I found I could get no chance for a personal conversation with Miss Lloyd until after the funeral.
I had, however, more or less talk with Gregory Hall, and as I became acquainted with him, I liked him less.
He was of a cold and calculating disposition, and when we were alone, he did not hesitate to gloat openly over his bright prospects.
“Terrible thing, to be put out of existence like that,” he said, as we sat in Mr. Crawford's office, looking over some papers; “but it solved a big problem for Florence and me. However, we'll be married as soon as we decently can, and then we'll go abroad, and forget the tragic part of it all.”
“I suppose you haven't a glimmer of a suspicion as to who did it,” I ventured.
“No, I haven't. Not the faintest notion. But I wish you could find out. Of course, nobody holds up that bag business as against Florence, but—it's uncomfortable all the same. I wish I'd been here that night. I'm 'most sure I'd have heard a shot, or something.”
“Where were you?” I said, in a careless tone.
Hall drew himself up stiffly. “Excuse me,” he said. “I declined to answer that question before. Since I was not in West Sedgwick, it can matter to no one where I was.”
“Oh, that's all right,” I returned affably, for I had no desire to get his ill will. “But of course we detectives have to ask questions. By the way, where did you buy Miss Lloyd's yellow roses?”
“See here,” said Gregory Hall, with a petulant expression, “I don't want to be questioned. I'm not on the witness-stand, and, as I've told you, I'm uncomfortable already about these so-called `clues' that seem to implicate Miss Lloyd. So, if you please, I'll say nothing.”
“All right,” I responded, “just as you like.”
I went away from the house, thinking how foolish people could be. I could easily discover where he bought the roses, as there were only three florists' shops in West Sedgwick and I resolved to go at once to hunt up the florist who sold them.
Assuming he would naturally go to the shop nearest the railroad station, and which was also on the way from the Crawford house, I went there first, and found my assumption correct.
The florist was more than willing to talk on the subject.
“Yes, sir,” he said; “I sold those roses to Mr. Hall—sold 'em to him myself. He wanted something extra nice, and I had just a dozen of those big yellow beauties. No, I don't raise my own flowers. I get 'em from the city. And so I had just that dozen, and I sent 'em right up. Well, there was some delay, for two of my boys were out to supper, and I waited for one to get back.”
“And you had no other roses just like these in stock?”
“No, sir. Hadn't had for a week or more. Haven't any now. May not get any more at all. They're a scarce sort, at best, and specially so this year.”
“And you sent Miss Lloyd the whole dozen?”
“Yes, sir; twelve. I like to put in an extra one or two when I can, but that time I couldn't. There wasn't another rose like them short of New York City.”
I thanked the florist, and, guessing that he was not above it, I gave him a more material token of my gratitude for his information, and then walked slowly back to my room at the inn.
Since there were no other roses of that sort in West Sedgwick that evening, it seemed to me as if Florence Lloyd must have gone down to her uncle's office after having pinned the blossom on her bodice. The only other possibility was that some intruder had entered by way of the French window wearing or carrying a similar flower, and that this intruder had come from New York, or at least from some place other than West Sedgwick. It was too absurd. Murderers don't go about decked with flowers, and yet at midnight a man in evening dress was not impossible, and evening dress might easily imply a boutonniere.
Well, this well-dressed man I had conjured up in my mind must have come from out of town, or else whence the flower, after all?
And then I bethought myself of that late newspaper. An extra, printed probably as late as eleven o'clock at night, must have been brought out to West Sedgwick by a traveller on some late train. Why not Gregory Hall, himself? I let my imagination run riot for a minute. Mr. Hall refused to say where he was on the night of the murder. Why not assume that he had come out from New York, in evening dress, at or about midnight? This would account for the newspaper and the yellow rose petals, for, if he bought a boutonniere in the city, how probable he would select the same flower he had just sent his fiancee.
I rather fancied the idea of Gregory Hall as the criminal. He had the same motive as Miss Lloyd. He knew of her uncle's objection to their union, and his threat of disinheritance. How easy for him to come out late from New York, on a night when he was not expected, and remove forever the obstacle to his future happiness!
I drew myself up with a start. This was not detective work. This was mere idle speculation. I must shake it off, and set about collecting some real evidence.
But the thought still clung to me; mere speculation it might be, but it was founded on the same facts that already threw suspicion on Florence Lloyd. With the exception of the gold bag—and that she disclaimed—such evidence as I knew of pointed toward Mr. Hall as well as toward Miss Lloyd.
However at present I was on the trail of those roses, and I determined to follow that trail to a definite end. I went back to the Crawford house and as I did not like to ask for Miss Lloyd, I asked for Mrs. Pierce.
She came down to the drawing room, and greeted me rather more cordially than I had dared to hope. I had a feeling that both ladies resented my presence there, for so many women have a prejudice against detectives.
But though nervous and agitated, Mrs. Pierce spoke to me kindly.
“Did you want to see me for anything in particular, Mr. Burroughs?” she asked.
“Yes, I do, Mrs. Pierce,” I replied; “I may as well tell you frankly that I want to find out all I can about those yellow roses.”
“Oh, those roses! Shall I never hear the last of them? I assure you, Mr. Burroughs, they're of no importance whatever.”
“That is not for you to decide,” I said quietly, and I began to see that perhaps a dictatorial attitude might be the best way to manage this lady. “Are the rest of those flowers still in Miss Lloyd's room? If so I wish to see them.”
“I don't know whether they are or not; but I will find out, and if so I'll bring them down.”
“No,” I said, “I will go with you to see them.”
“But Florence may be in her room.”
“So much the better. She can tell me anything I wish to know.”
“Oh, please don't interview her! I'm sure she wouldn't want to talk with you.”
“Very well, then ask her to vacate the room, and I will go there with you now.”
Mrs. Pierce went away, and I began to wonder if I had gone too far or had overstepped my authority. But it was surely my duty to learn all I could about Florence Lloyd, and what so promising of suggestions as her own room?
Mrs. Pierce returned in a few moments, and affably enough she asked me to accompany her to Miss Lloyd's room.
I did so, and after entering devoted my whole attention to the bunch of yellow roses, which in a glass vase stood on the window seat. Although somewhat wilted, they were still beautiful, and without the slightest doubt were the kind of rose from which the two tell-tale petals had fallen.
Acting upon a sudden thought, I counted them. There were nine, each one seemingly with its full complement of petals, though of this I could not be perfectly certain.
“Now, Mrs.—Pierce,” I said, turning to her with an air of authority which was becoming difficult to maintain, “where are the roses which Miss Lloyd admits having pinned to her gown?”
“Mercy! I don't know,” exclaimed Mrs. Pierce, looking bewildered. “I suppose she threw them away.”
“I suppose she did,” I returned; “would she not be likely to throw them in the waste basket?”
“She might,” returned Mrs. Pierce, turning toward an ornate affair of wicker-work and pink ribbons.
Sure enough, in the basket, among a few scraps of paper, were two exceedingly withered yellow roses. I picked them out and examined them, but in their present state it was impossible to tell whether they had lost any petals or not, so I threw them back in the basket.
Mrs. Pierce seemed to care nothing for evidence or deduction in the matter, but began to lament the carelessness of the chambermaid who had not emptied the waste basket the day before.
But I secretly blessed the delinquent servant, and began pondering on this new development of the rose question. The nine roses in the vase and the two in the basket made but eleven, and the florist had told me that he had sent a dozen. Where was the twelfth?
The thought occurred to me that Miss Lloyd might have put away one as a sentimental souvenir, but to my mind she did not seem the kind of a girl to do that. I knew my reasoning was absurd, for what man can predicate what a woman will do? but at the same time I could not seem to imagine the statuesque, imperial Miss Lloyd tenderly preserving a rose that her lover had given her.
But might not Gregory Hall have taken one of the dozen for himself before sending the rest? This was merely surmise, but it was a possibility, and at any rate the twelfth rose was not in Miss Lloyd's room.
Therefore the twelfth rose was a factor to be reckoned with, a bit of evidence to be found; and I determined to find it.
I asked Mrs. Pierce to arrange for me an interview with Miss Lloyd, but the elder lady seemed doubtful.
“I'm quite sure she won't see you,” she said, “for she has declared she will see no one until after the funeral. But if you want me to ask her anything for you, I will do so.”
“Very well,” I said, surprised at her willingness; “please ask Miss Lloyd if she knows what became of the twelfth yellow rose; and beg her to appreciate the fact that it is a vital point in the case.”
Mrs. Pierce agreed to do this, and as I went down the stairs she promised to join me in the library a few moments later.
She kept her promise, and I waited eagerly her report.
“Miss Lloyd bids me tell you,” she said, “that she knows nothing of what you call the twelfth rose. She did not count the roses, she merely took two of them to pin on her dress, and when she retired, she carelessly threw those two in the waste basket. She thinks it probable there were only eleven in the box when it arrived. But at any rate she knows nothing more of the matter.”
I thanked Mrs. Pierce for her courtesy and patience, and feeling that I now had a real problem to consider, I started back to the inn.
It could not be that this rose matter was of no importance. For the florist had assured me he had sold exactly twelve flowers to Mr. Gregory Hall, and of these, I could account for only eleven. The twelfth rose must have been separated from the others, either by Mr. Hall, at the time of purchase, or by some one else later. If the petals found on the floor fell from that twelfth rose, and if Florence Lloyd spoke the truth when she declared she knew nothing of it, then she was free from suspicion in that direction.
But until I could make some further effort to find out about the missing rose I concluded to say nothing of it to anybody. I was not bound to tell Parmalee any points I might discover, for though colleagues, we were working independently of each other.
But as I was anxious to gather any side lights possible, I determined to go for a short conference with the district attorney, in whose hands the case had been put after the coroner's inquest.
He was a man named Goodrich, a quiet mannered, untalkative person, and as might be expected he had made little or no progress as yet.
He said nothing could be done until after the funeral and the reading of the will, which ceremonies would occur the next afternoon.
I talked but little to Mr. Goodrich, yet I soon discovered that he strongly suspected Miss Lloyd of the crime, either as principal or accessory.
“But I can't believe it,” I objected. “A girl, delicately brought up, in refined and luxurious surroundings, does not deliberately commit an atrocious crime.”
“A woman thwarted in her love affair will do almost anything,” declared Mr. Goodrich. “I have had more experience than you, my boy, and I advise you not to bank too much on the refined and luxurious surroundings. Sometimes such things foster crime instead of preventing it. But the truth will come out, and soon, I think. The evidence that seems to point to Miss Lloyd can be easily proved or disproved, once we get at the work in earnest. That coroner's jury was made up of men who were friends and neighbors of Mr. Crawford. They were so prejudiced by sympathy for Miss Lloyd, and indignation at the unknown criminal, that they couldn't give unbiased judgment. But we will yet see justice done. If Miss Lloyd is innocent, we can prove it. But remember the provocation she was under. Remember the opportunity she had, to visit her uncle alone in his office, after every one else in the house was asleep. Remember that she had a motive—a strong motive—and no one else had.”
“Except Mr. Gregory Hall,” I said meaningly.
“Yes; I grant he had the same motive. But he is known to have left town at six that evening, and did not return until nearly noon the next day. That lets him out.”
“Yes, unless he came back at midnight, and then went back to the city again.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Goodrich. “That's fanciful. Why, the latest train—the theatre train, as we call it—gets in at one o'clock, and it's always full of our society people returning from gayeties in New York. He would have been seen had he come on that train, and there is no later one.”
I didn't stay to discuss the matter further. Indeed, Mr. Goodrich had made me feel that my theories were fanciful.
But whatever my theories might be there were still facts to be investigated.
Remembering my determination to examine that gold bag more thoroughly I asked Mr. Goodrich to let me see it, for of course, as district attorney, it was now in his possession.
He gave it to me with an approving nod. “That's the way to work,” he said. “That bag is your evidence. Now from that, you detectives must go ahead and learn the truth.”
“Whose bag is it?” I said, with the intention of drawing him out.
“It's Miss Lloyd's bag,” he said gravely. “Any woman in the world would deny its ownership, in the existing circumstances, and I am not surprised that she did so. Nor do I blame her for doing so. Self preservation is a mighty strong impulse in the human heart, and we've all got a right to obey it.”
As I took the gold bag from his hand, I didn't in the least believe that Florence Lloyd was the owner of it, and I resolved anew to prove this to the satisfaction of everybody concerned.
Mr. Goodrich turned away and busied himself about other matters, and I devoted myself to deep study.
The contents of the bag proved as blank and unsuggestive as ever. The most exhaustive examination of its chain, its clasp and its thousands of links gave me not the tiniest thread or shred of any sort.
But as I poked and pried around in its lining I found a card, which had slipped between the main lining and an inside pocket.
I drew it out as carefully as I could, and it proved to be a small plain visiting card bearing the engraved name, “Mrs. Egerton Purvis.”
I sat staring at it, and then furtively glanced at Mr. Goodrich. He was not observing me, and I instinctively felt that I did not wish him to know of the card until I myself had given the matter further thought.
I returned the card to its hiding place and returned the bag to Mr. Goodrich, after which I went away.
I had not copied the name, for it was indelibly photographed upon my brain. As I walked along the street I tried to construct the personality of Mrs. Egerton Purvis from her card. But I was able to make no rational deductions, except that the name sounded aristocratic, and was quite in keeping with the general effect of the bag and its contents.
To be sure I might have deduced that she was a lady of average height and size, because she wore a number six glove; that she was careful of her personal appearance, because she possessed a vanity case; that she was of tidy habits, because she evidently expected to send her gowns to be cleaned. But all these things seemed to me puerile and even ridiculous, as such characteristics would apply to thousands of woman all over the country.
Instead of this, I went straight to the telegraph office and wired to headquarters in a cipher code. I instructed them to learn the identity and whereabouts of Mrs. Egerton Purvis, and advise me as soon as possible.
Then I returned to the Sedgwick Arms, feeling decidedly well satisfied with my morning's work, and content to wait until after Mr. Crawford's funeral to do any further real work in the matter.
I went to the Crawford house on the day of the funeral; but as I reached there somewhat earlier than the hour appointed, I went into the office with the idea of looking about for further clues.
In the office I found Gregory Hall; looking decidedly disturbed.
“I can't find Mr. Crawford's will,” he said, as he successively looked through one drawer after another.
“What!” I responded. “Hasn't that been located already?”
“No; it's this way: I didn't see it here in this office, or in the New York office, so I assumed Mr. Randolph had it in his possession. But it seems he thought it was here, all the time. Only this morning we discovered our mutual error, and Mr. Randolph concluded it must be in Mr. Crawford's safety deposit box at the bank in New York. So Mr. Philip Crawford hurried through his administration papers—he is to be executor of the estate—and went in to get it from the bank. But he has just returned with the word that it wasn't there. So we've no idea where it is.”
“Oh, well,” said I, “since he hadn't yet made the new will he had in mind, everything belongs to Miss Lloyd.”
“That's just the point,” said Hall, his face taking on a despairing look. “If we don't find that will, she gets nothing!”
“How's that?” I said.
“Why, she's really not related to the Crawfords. She's a niece of Joseph Crawford's wife. So in the absence of a will his property will all go to his brother Philip, who is his legal heir.”
“Oho!” I exclaimed. “This is a new development. But the will will turn up.”
“Oh, yes, I'm sure of it,” returned Hall, but his anxious face showed anything but confidence in his own words.
“But,” I went on, “didn't Philip Crawford object to his brother's giving all his fortune to Miss Lloyd?”
“It didn't matter if he did. Nobody could move Joseph Crawford's determination. And I fancy Philip didn't make any great disturbance about it. Of course, Mr. Joseph had a right to do as he chose with his own, and the will gave Philip a nice little sum, any way. Not much, compared to the whole fortune, but, still, a generous bequest.”
“What does Mr. Randolph say?”
“He's completely baffled. He doesn't know what to think.”
“Can it have been stolen?”
“Why, no; who would steal it? I only fear he may have destroyed it because he expected to make a different one. In that case, Florence is penniless, save for such bounty as Philip Crawford chooses to bestow on her.”
I didn't like the tone in which Hall said this. It was distinctly aggrieved, and gave the impression that Florence Lloyd, penniless, was of far less importance than Miss Lloyd, the heiress of her uncle's millions.
“But he would doubtless provide properly for her,” I said.
“Oh, yes, properly. But she would find herself in a very different position, dependent on his generosity, from what she would be as sole heir to her uncle's fortune.”
I looked steadily at the man. Although not well acquainted with him, I couldn't resist giving expression to my thought.
“But since you are to marry her,” I said, “she need not long be dependent upon her uncle's charity.”
“Philip Crawford isn't really her uncle, and no one can say what he will do in the matter.”
Gregory Hall was evidently greatly disturbed at the new situation brought about by the disappearance of Mr. Crawford's will. But apparently the main reason for his disturbance was the impending poverty of his fiancee. There was no doubt that Mr. Carstairs and others who had called this man a fortune-hunter had judged him rightly.
However, without further words on the subject, I waited while Hall locked the door of the office, and then we went together to the great drawing-room, where the funeral services were about to take place.
I purposely selected a position from which I could see the faces of the group of people most nearly connected with the dead man. I had a strange feeling, as I looked at them, that one of them might be the instrument of the crime which had brought about this funeral occasion.
During the services I looked closely and in turn at each face, but beyond the natural emotions of grief which might be expected, I could read nothing more.
The brother, Philip Crawford, the near neighbors, Mr. Porter and Mr. Hamilton, the lawyer, Mr. Randolph, all sat looking grave and solemn as they heard the last words spoken above their dead friend. The ladies of the household, quietly controlling their emotions, sat near me, and next to Florence Lloyd Gregory Hall had seated himself.
All of these people I watched closely, half hoping that some inadvertent sign might tell me of someone's knowledge of the secret. But when the clergyman referred to the retribution that would sooner or later overtake the criminal. I could see an expression of fear or apprehension on no face save that of Florence Lloyd. She turned even whiter than before, her pale lips compressed in a straight line, and her small black gloved hand softly crept into that of Gregory Hall. The movement was not generally noticeable, but it seemed to me pathetic above all things. Whatever her position in the matter, she was surely appealing to him for help and protection.
Without directly repulsing her, Hall was far from responsive. He allowed her hand to rest in his own but gave her no answering pressure, and looked distinctly relieved when, after a moment, she withdrew it.
I saw that Parmalee also had observed this, and I could see that to him it was an indication of the girl's perturbed spirit. To me it seemed that it might equally well mean many other things. For instance it might mean her apprehension for Gregory Hall, who, I couldn't help thinking was far more likely to be a wrongdoer than the girl herself.
With a little sigh I gave up trying to glean much information from the present opportunity, and contented myself with the melancholy pleasure it gave me simply to look at the sad sweet face of the girl who was already enshrined in my heart.
After the solemn and rather elaborate obsequies were over, a little assembly gathered in the library to hear the reading of the will.
As, until then, no one had known of the disappearance of the will, except the lawyer and the secretary, it came as a thunderbolt.
“I have no explanation to offer,” said Mr. Randolph, looking greatly concerned, but free of all personal responsibility. “Mr. Crawford always kept the will in his own possession. When he came to see me, the last evening he was alive, in regard to making a new will, he did not bring the old one with him. We arranged to meet in his office the next morning to draw up the new instrument, when he doubtless expected to destroy the old one.
“He may have destroyed it on his return home that evening. I do not know. But so far it has not been found among his papers in either of his offices or in the bank. Of course it may appear, as the search, though thorough, has not yet been exhaustive. We will, therefore, hold the matter in abeyance a few days, hoping to find the missing document.”
His hearers were variously affected by this news. Florence Lloyd was simply dazed. She could not seem to grasp a situation which so suddenly changed her prospects. For she well knew that in the event of no will being found, Joseph Crawford's brother would be his rightful heir, and she would be legally entitled to nothing at all.
Philip Crawford sat with an utterly expressionless face. Quite able to control his emotion, if he felt any, he made no sign that he welcomed this possibility of a great fortune unexpectedly coming to him.
Lemuel Porter, who, with his wife, had remained because of their close friendship with the family, spoke out rather abruptly,
“Find it! Of course it must be found! It's absurd to think the man destroyed one will before the other was drawn.”
“I agree with you,” said Philip Crawford.
“Joseph was very methodical in his habits, and, besides, I doubt if he would really have changed his will. I think he merely threatened it, to see if Florence persisted in keeping her engagement.”
This was a generous speech on the part of Philip Crawford. To be sure, generosity of speech couldn't affect the disposal of the estate. If no will were found, it must by law go to the brother, but none the less the hearty, whole-souled way in which he spoke of Miss Lloyd was greatly to his credit as a man.
“I think so, too,” agreed Mr. Porter. “As you know, I called on Mr. Joseph Crawford during the—the last evening of his life.”
The speaker paused, and indeed it must have been a sad remembrance that pictured itself to his mind.
“Did he then refer to the matter of the will?” asked Mr. Randolph, in gentle tones.
“He did. Little was said on the subject, but he told me that unless Florence consented to his wishes in the matter of her engagement to Mr. Hall, he would make a new will, leaving her only a small bequest.”
“In what manner did you respond, Mr. Porter?”
“I didn't presume to advise him definitely, but I urged him not to be too hard on the girl, and, at any rate, not to make a new will until he had thought it over more deliberately.”
“What did he then say?”
“Nothing of any definite import. He began talking of other matters, and the will was not again referred to. But I can't help thinking he had not destroyed it.”
At this, Miss Lloyd seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Gregory Hall, she gave a little sigh, and remained silent.
“You know of nothing that can throw any light on the matter of the will, Mr. Hall?” asked Mr. Randolph.
“No, sir. Of course this whole situation is very embarrassing for me. I can only say that I have known for a long time the terms of Mr. Crawford's existing will; I have known of his threats of changing it; I have known of his attitude toward my engagement to his niece. But I never spoke to him on any of these subjects, nor he to me, though several times I have thought he was on the point of doing so. I have had access to most of his private papers, but of two or three small boxes he always retained the keys. I had no curiosity concerning the contents of these boxes, but I naturally assumed his will was in one of them. I have, however, opened these boxes since Mr. Crawford's death, in company with Mr. Randolph, and we found no will. Nor could we discover any in the New York office or in the bank. That is all I know of the matter.”
Gregory Hall's demeanor was dignified and calm, his voice even and, indeed, cold. He was like a bystander, with no vital interest in the subject he talked about.
Knowing, as I did, that his interest was vital, I came to the conclusion that he was a man of unusual self-control, and an ability to mask his real feelings completely. Feeling that nothing more could be learned at present, I left the group in the library discussing the loss of the will, and went down to the district attorney's office.
He was, of course, surprised at my news, and agreed with me that it gave us new fields for conjecture.
“Now, we see,” he said eagerly, “that the motive for the murder was the theft of the will.”
“Not necessarily,” I replied. “Mr. Crawford may have destroyed the will before he met his death.”
“But that would leave no motive. No, the will supplies the motive. Now, you see, this frees Miss Lloyd from suspicion. She would have no reason to kill her uncle and then destroy or suppress a will in her own favor.”
“That reasoning also frees Mr. Hall from suspicion,” said I, reverting to my former theories.
“Yes, it does. We must look for the one who has benefited by the removal of the will. That, of course, would be the brother, Mr. Philip Crawford.”
I looked at the attorney a moment, and then burst into laughter.
“My dear Mr. Goodrich,” I said, “don't be absurd! A man would hardly shoot his own brother, but aside from that, why should Philip Crawford kill Joseph just at the moment he is about to make a new will in Philip's favor? Either the destruction of the old will or the drawing of the new would result in Philip's falling heir to the fortune. So he would hardly precipitate matters by a criminal act. And, too, if he had been keen about the money, he could have urged his brother to disinherit Florence Lloyd, and Joseph would have willingly done so. He was on the very point of doing so, any way.”
“That's true,” said Mr. Goodrich, looking chagrined but unconvinced. “However, it frees Miss Lloyd from all doubts, by removing her motive. As you say, she wouldn't suppress a will in her favor, and thereby turn the fortune over to Philip. And, as you also said, this lets Gregory Hall out, too, though I never suspected him for a moment. But, of course, his interests and Miss Lloyd's are identical.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, for new thoughts were rapidly following one another through my brain. “Not so fast, Mr. District Attorney. The disappearance of the will does not remove motive from the possibility of Miss Lloyd's complicity in this crime—or Mr. Hall's either.”
“How so?”
“Because, if Florence Lloyd thought her uncle was in possession of that will, her motive was identically the same as if he had possessed it. Now, she certainly thought he had it, for her surprise at the news of its loss was as unfeigned as my own. And of course Hall thought the will was among Mr. Crawford's effects, for he has been searching constantly since the question was raised.”
“But I thought that yesterday you were so sure of Miss Lloyd's innocence,” objected Mr. Goodrich.
“I was,” I said slowly, “and I think I am still. But in the light of absolute evidence I am only declaring that the non-appearance of that will in no way interferes with the motive Miss Lloyd must have had if she is in any way guilty. She knew, or thought she knew, that the will was there, in her favor. She knew her uncle intended to revoke it and make another in her disfavor. I do not accuse her—I'm not sure I suspect her—I only say she had motive and opportunity.”
As I walked away from Mr. Goodrich's office, those words rang in my mind, motive and opportunity. Truly they applied to Mr. Hall as well as to Miss Lloyd, although of course it would mean Hall's coming out from the city and returning during the night. And though this might have been a difficult thing to do secretly, it was by no means impossible. He might not have come all the way to West Sedgwick Station, but might have dropped off the train earlier and taken the trolley. The trolley! that thought reminded me of the transfer I had picked up on the grass plot near the office veranda. Was it possible that slip of paper was a clue, and pointing toward Hall?
Without definite hope of seeing Gregory Hall, but hopeful of learning something about him, I strolled back to the Crawford house. I went directly to the office, and by good luck found Gregory Hall there alone. He was still searching among the papers of Mr. Crawford's desk.
“Ah, Mr. Burroughs,” he said, as I entered, “I'm glad to see you. If detectives detect, you have a fine chance here to do a bit of good work. I wouldn't mind offering you an honorarium myself, if you could unearth the will that has so mysteriously disappeared.”
Hall's whole manner had changed. He had laid aside entirely the grave demeanor which he had shown at the funeral, and was again the alert business man. He was more than this. He was eager,—offensively so,—in his search for the will. It needed no detective instinct to see that the fortune of Joseph Crawford and its bestowment were matters of vital interest to him.
But though his personal feelings on the subject might be distasteful to me, it was certainly part of my duty to aid in the search, and so with him I looked through the various drawers and filing cabinets. The papers representing or connected with the financial interests of the late millionaire were neatly filed and labelled; but in some parts of the desk we found the hodge-podge of personal odds and ends which accumulates with nearly everybody.
Hall seemed little interested in those, but to my mind they showed a possibility of casting some light on Mr. Crawford's personal affairs.
But among old letters, photographs, programs, newspaper clippings, and such things, there was nothing that seemed of the slightest interest, until at last I chanced upon a photograph that arrested my attention.
“Do you know who this is?” I inquired.
“No,” returned Hall, with a careless glance at it; “a friend of Mr. Crawford's, I suppose.”
“More than a friend, I should judge,” and I turned the back of the picture toward him. Across it was written, “with loving Christmas greetings, from M.S.P.”; and it was dated as recently as the Christmas previous.
“Well,” said Hall, “Mr. Crawford may have had a lady friend who cared enough about him to send an affectionate greeting, but I never heard of her before, and I doubt if she is in any way responsible for the disappearance of this will.”
He went on searching through the desks, giving no serious heed to the photograph. But to me it seemed important. I alone knew of the visiting card in the gold bag. I alone knew that that bag belonged to a lady named Purvis. And here was a photograph initialed by a lady whose surname began with P, and who was unmistakably on affectionate terms with Mr. Crawford. To my mind the links began to form a chain; the lady who had sent her photograph at Christmas, and who had left her gold bag in Mr. Crawford's office the night he was killed, surely was a lady to be questioned.
But I had not yet had a reply to my telegram to headquarters, so I said nothing to Hall on this subject, and putting the photograph in my pocket continued to assist him to look for the will, but without success. However, the discovery of the photograph had in a measure diverted my suspicions from Gregory Hall; and though I endeavored to draw him into general conversation, I did not ask him any definite questions about himself.
But the more I talked with him, the more I disliked him: He not only showed a mercenary, fortune-hunting spirit, but he showed himself in many ways devoid of the finer feelings and chivalrous nature that ought to belong to the man about to marry such a perfect flower of womanhood as Florence Lloyd.
After spending an evening in thinking over the situation and piecing together my clues, I decided that the next thing to be done was to trace up that transfer. If I could fasten that upon Gregory Hall, it would indeed be a starting point to work from. Although this seemed to eliminate Mrs. Purvis, who had already become a living entity in my mind, I still had haunting suspicions of Hall; and then, too, there was a possibility of collusion between these two. It might be fanciful, but if Hall and the Purvis woman were both implicated, Hall was quite enough a clever villain to treat the photograph lightly as he had done.
And so the next morning, I started for the office of the trolley car company.
I learned without difficulty that the transfer I had found, must have been given to some passenger the night of Mr. Crawford's death, but was not used. It had been issued after nine o'clock in the evening, somewhere on the line between New York and West Sedgwick. It was a transfer which entitled a passenger on that line to a trip on the branch line running through West Sedgwick, and the fact that it had not been used, implied either a negligent conductor or a decision on the part of the passenger not to take his intended ride.
All this was plausible, though a far from definite indication that Hall might have come out from New York by trolley, or part way by trolley, and though accepting a transfer on the West Sedgwick branch, had concluded not to use it. But the whole theory pointed equally as well to Mrs. Purvis, or indeed to the unknown intruder insisted upon by so many. I endeavored to learn something from certain conductors who brought their cars into West Sedgwick late at night, but it seemed they carried a great many passengers and of course could not identify a transfer, of which scores of duplicates had been issued.
Without much hope I interviewed the conductors of the West Sedgwick Branch Line. Though I could learn nothing definite, I fell into conversation with one of them, a young Irishman, who was interested because of my connection with the mystery.
“No, sir,” he said, “I can't tell you anythin' about a stray transfer. But one thing I can tell you. That 'ere murder was committed of a Toosday night, wasn't it?”
“Yes,” I returned.
“Well, that 'ere parlyvoo vally of Mr. Crawford's, he's rid, on my car 'most every Toosday night fer weeks and weeks. It's his night off. And last Toosday night he didn't ride with me. Now I don't know's that means anything, but agin it might.”
It didn't seem to me that it meant much, for certainly Louis was not under the slightest suspicion. And yet as I came to think about it, if that had been Louis's transfer and if he had dropped it near the office veranda, he had lied when he said that he went round the other side of the house to reach the back entrance.
It was all very vague, but it narrowed itself down to the point that if that were Louis's transfer it could be proved; and if not it must be investigated further. For a trolley transfer, issued at a definite hour, and dropped just outside the scene of the crime was certainly a clue of importance.
I proceeded to the Crawford house, and though I intended to have a talk with Louis later, I asked first for Miss Lloyd. Surely, if I were to carry on my investigation of the case, in her interests, I must have a talk with her. I had not intruded before, but now that the funeral was over, the real work of tracking the criminal must be commenced, and as one of the principal characters in the sad drama, Miss Lloyd must play her part.
Until I found myself in her presence I had not actually realized how much I wanted this interview.
I was sure that what she said, her manner and her facial expression, must either blot out or strengthen whatever shreds of suspicion I held against her.
“Miss Lloyd,” I began, “I am, as you know, a detective; and I am here in Sedgwick for the purpose of discovering the cowardly assassin of your uncle. I assume that you wish to aid me in any way you can. Am I right in this?”
Instead of the unhesitating affirmative I had expected, the girl spoke irresolutely. “Yes,” she said, “but I fear I cannot help you, as I know nothing about it.”
The fact that this reply did not sound to me as a rebuff, for which it was doubtless intended, I can only account for by my growing appreciation of her wonderful beauty.
Instead of funereal black, Miss Lloyd was clad all in white, and her simple wool gown gave her a statuesque appearance; which, however, was contradicted by the pathetic weariness in her face and the sad droop of her lovely mouth. Her helplessness appealed to me, and, though she assumed an air of composure, I well knew it was only assumed, and that with some difficulty.
Resolving to make it as easy as possible for her, I did not ask her to repeat the main facts, which I already knew.
“Then, Miss Lloyd,” I said, in response to her disclaimer, “if you cannot help me, perhaps I can help you. I have reason to think that possibly Louis, your late uncle's valet, did not tell the truth in his testimony at the coroner's inquest. I have reason to think that instead of going around the house to the back entrance as he described, he went around the other side, thus passing your uncle's office.”
To my surprise this information affected Miss Lloyd much more seriously than I supposed it would.
“What?” she said, and her voice was a frightened whisper. “What time did he come home?”
“I don't know,” I replied; “but you surely don't suspect Louis of anything wrong. I was merely hoping, that if he did pass the office he might have looked in, and so could tell us of your uncle's well-being at that time.”
“At what time?”
“At whatever time he returned home. Presumably rather late. But since you are interested in the matter, will you not call Louis and let us question him together?”
The girl fairly shuddered at this suggestion. She hesitated, and for a moment was unable to speak. Of course this behavior on her part filled my soul with awful apprehension. Could it be possible that she and Louis were in collusion, and that she dreaded the Frenchman's disclosures? I remembered the strange looks he had cast at her while being questioned by the coroner. I remembered his vehement denial of having passed the office that evening,—too vehement, it now seemed to me. However, if I were to learn anything damaging to Florence Lloyd's integrity, I would rather learn it now, in her presence, than elsewhere. So I again asked her to send for the valet.
With a despairing look, as of one forced to meet an impending fate, she rose, crossed the room and rang a bell. Then she returned to her seat and said quietly, “You may ask the man such questions as you wish, Mr. Burroughs, but I beg you will not include me in the conversation.”
“Not unless it should be necessary,” I replied coldly, for I did not at all like her making this stipulation. To me it savored of a sort of cowardice, or at least a presumption on my own chivalry.
When the man appeared, I saw at a glance he was quite as much agitated as Miss Lloyd. There was no longer a possibility of a doubt that these two knew something, had some secret in common, which bore directly on the case, and which must be exposed. A sudden hope flashed into my mind that it might be only some trifling secret, which seemed of importance to them, but which was merely a side issue of the great question.
I considered myself justified in taking advantage of the man's perturbation, and without preliminary speech I drew the transfer from my pocket and fairly flashed it in his face.
“Louis,” I said sternly, “you dropped this transfer when you came home the night of Mr. Crawford's death.”
The suddenness of my remark had the effect I desired, and fairly frightened the truth out of the man.
“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, and then with a frightened glance at Miss Lloyd, he stood nervously interlacing his fingers.
I glanced at Miss Lloyd myself, but she had regained entire self-possession, and sat looking straight before her with an air that seemed to say, “Go on, I'm prepared for the worst.”
As I paused myself to contemplate the attitudes of the two, I lost my ground of vantage, for when I again spoke to the man, he too was more composed and ready to reply with caution. Doubtless he was influenced by Miss Lloyd's demeanor, for he imitatively assumed a receptive air.
“Where did you get the transfer?” I went on.
“On the trolley, sir; the main line.”
“To be used on the Branch Line through West Sedgwick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you not use it?”
“As I tell you, sir, and as I tell monsieur, the coroner, I have spend that evening with a young lady. We went for a trolley ride, and as we returned I take a transfer for myself, but not for her, as she live near where we alight.”
“Oh, you left the main line and took the young lady home, intending then yourself to come by trolley through West Sedgwick?”
“Yes, sir; it was just that way.”
At this point Louis seemed to forget his embarrassment, his gaze strayed away, and a happy expression came into his eyes. I felt sure I was reading his volatile French nature aright, when I assumed his mind had turned back to the pleasant evening he had spent with his young lady acquaintance. Somehow this went far to convince me of the fellow's innocence for it was quite evident the murder and its mystery were not uppermost in his thoughts at that moment. But my next question brought him back to realization of the present situation.
“And why didn't you use your transfer?”
“Only that the night, he was so pleasant, I desired to walk.”
“And so you walked through the village, holding, perhaps, the transfer in your hand?”
“I think, yes; but I do not remember the transfer in my hand, though he may have been there.”
And now the man's unquiet had returned. His lips twitched and his dark eyes rolled about, as he endeavored in vain to look anywhere but at Miss Lloyd. She, too, was controlling herself by a visible effort.
Anxious to bring the matter to a crisis, I said at once, and directly:
“And then you entered the gates of this place, you walked to the house, you walked around the house to the back by way of the path which leads around by the library veranda, and you accidentally dropped your transfer near the veranda step.”
I spoke quietly enough, but Louis immediately burst into voluble denial.
“No, no!” he exclaimed; “I do not go round by the office, I go the other side of the house. I have tell you so many times.”
“But I myself picked up your transfer near the office veranda.”
“Then he blow there. The wind blow that night, oh, something fearful! He blow the paper around the house, I think.”
“I don't think so,” I retorted; “I think you went around the house that way, I think you paused at the office window—”
Just here I made a dramatic pause myself, hoping thus to appeal to the emotional nature of my victim. And I succeeded. Louis almost shrieked as he pressed his hands against his eyes, and cried out: “No! no! I tell you I did not go round that way! I go round the other way, and the wind—the wind, he blow my transfer all about!”
I tried a more quiet manner, I tried persuasive arguments, I finally resorted to severity and even threats, but no admission could I get from Louis, except that he had not gone round the house by way of the office. I was positive the man was lying, and I was equally positive that Miss Lloyd knew he was lying, and that she knew why, but the matter seemed to me at a deadlock. I could have questioned her, but I preferred to do that when Louis was not present. If she must suffer ignominy it need not be before a servant. So I dismissed Louis, perhaps rather curtly, and turning to Miss Lloyd, I asked her if she believed his assertion that he did not pass by the office that night.
“I don't know what I believe,” she answered, wearily drawing her hand across her brow. “And I can't see that it matters anyway. Supposing he did go by the office, you certainly don't suspect him of my uncle's murder, do you?”
“It is my duty, Miss Lloyd,” I said gently, for the girl was pitiably nervous, “to get the testimony of any one who was in or near the office that night. But of course testimony is useless unless it is true.”
I looked her straight in the eyes as I said this, for I was thoroughly convinced that her own testimony at the inquest had not been entirely true.
I think she understood my glance, for she arose at once, and said with extreme dignity: “I cannot see any necessity for prolonging this interview, Mr. Burroughs. It is of course your work to discover the truth or falsity of Louis's story, but I cannot see that it in any way implicates or even interests me.”
The girl was superb. Her beauty was enhanced by the sudden spirit she showed, and her flashing dark eyes suggested a baited animal at bay. Apparently she had reached the limit of her endurance, and was unwilling to be questioned further or drawn into further admissions. And yet, some inexplicable idea came to me that she was angry, not with me, but with the tangle in which I had remorselessly enmeshed her. Of a high order of intelligence, she knew perfectly well that I was conscious of the fact that there was a secret of some sort between her and the valet. Her haughty disdain, I felt sure, was to convey the impression that though there might be a secret between them, it was no collusion or working together, and that though her understanding with the man was mysterious, it was in no way beneath her dignity. Her imperious air as she quietly left the room thrilled me anew, and I began to think that a woman who could assume the haughty demeanor of an empress might have chosen, as empresses had done before her, to commit crime.
However, she went away, and the dark and stately library seemed to have lost its only spot of light and charm. I sat for a few minutes pondering over it all, when I saw passing through the hall, the maid, Elsa. It suddenly occurred to me, that having failed with the mistress of the house, I might succeed better with her maid, so I called the girl in.
She came willingly enough, and though she seemed timid, she was not embarrassed or afraid.
“I'm in authority here,” I said, “and I'm going to ask you some questions, which you must answer truthfully.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, without any show of interest.
“Have you been with Miss Lloyd long?”
“Yes, sir; about four years, sir.”
“Is she a kind mistress?”
“Indeed she is, sir. She is the loveliest lady I ever worked for. I'd do anything for Miss Lloyd, that I would.”
“Well, perhaps you can best serve her by telling all you know about the events of Tuesday night.”
“But I don't know anything, sir,” and Elsa's eyes opened wide in absolutely unfeigned wonderment.
“Nothing about the actual murder; no, of course not. But I just want you to tell me a few things about some minor matters. Did you take the yellow flowers from the box that was sent to Miss Lloyd?”
“Yes, sir; I always untie her parcels. And as she was at dinner, I arranged the flowers in a vase of water.”
“How many flowers were there?”
For some reason this simple query disturbed the girl greatly. She flushed scarlet, and then she turned pale. She twisted the corner of her apron in her nervous fingers, and then said, only half audibly, “I don't know, sir.”
“Oh, yes, you do, Elsa,” I said in kindly tones, being anxious not to frighten her; “tell me how many there were. Were there not a dozen?”
“I don't know, sir; truly I don't. I didn't count them at all.”
It was impossible to disbelieve her; she was plainly telling the truth. And, too, why should she count the roses? The natural thing would be not to count them, but merely to put them in the vase as she had said. And yet, there was something about those flowers that Elsa knew and wouldn't tell. Could it be that I was on the track of that missing twelfth rose? I knew, though perhaps Elsa did not, how many roses the florist had sent in that box. And unless Gregory Hall had abstracted one at the time of his purchase, the twelfth rose had been taken by some one else after the flowers reached the Crawford House. Could it have been Elsa, and was her perturbation only because of a guilty conscience over a petty theft of a flower? But I realized I must question her adroitly if I would find out these things.
“Is Miss Lloyd fond of flowers?” I asked, casually.
“Oh, yes, sir, she always has some by her.”
“And do you love flowers too, Elsa?”
“Yes, sir.” But the quietly spoken answer, accompanied by a natural and straightforward look promised little for my new theory.
“Does Miss Lloyd sometimes give you some of her flowers?”
“Oh, yes, sir, quite often.”
“That is, if she's there when they arrive. But if she isn't there, and you open the box yourself, she wouldn't mind if you took one or two blossoms, would she?”
“Oh, no, sir, she wouldn't mind. Miss Lloyd's awful kind about such things. But I wouldn't often do it, sir.”
“No; of course not. But you did happen to take one of those yellow roses, didn't you, though?”
I breathlessly awaited the answer, but to my surprise, instead of embarrassment the girl's eyes flashed with anger, though she answered quietly enough, “Well, yes, I did, sir.”
Ah, at last I was on the trail of that twelfth rose! But from the frank way in which the girl admitted having taken the flower, I greatly feared that the trail would lead to a commonplace ending.
“What did you do with it?” I said quietly, endeavoring to make the question sound of little importance.
“I don't want to tell you;” and the pout on her scarlet lips seemed more like that of a wilful child than of one guarding a guilty secret.
“Oh, yes, tell me, Elsa;” and I even descended to a coaxing tone, to win the girl's confidence.
“Well, I gave it to that Louis.”
“To Louis? and why do you call him that Louis?”
“Oh, because. I gave him the flower to wear because I thought he was going to take me out that evening. He had promised he would, at least he had sort of promised, and then,—and then—”
“And then he took another young lady,” I finished for her in tones of such sympathy and indignation that she seemed to think she had found a friend.
“Yes,” she said, “he went and took another girl riding on the trolley, after he had said he would take me.”
“Elsa,” I said suddenly, and I fear she thought I had lost interest in her broken heart, “did Louis wear that rose you gave him that night?”
“Yes, the horrid man! I saw it in his coat when he went away.”
“And did he wear it home again?”
“How should I know?” Elsa tossed her head with what was meant to be a haughty air, but which was belied by the blush that mantled her cheek at her own prevarication.
“But you do know,” I insisted, gently; “did he wear it when he came home?”
“Yes, he did.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I looked in his room the next day, and I saw it there all withered. He had thrown it on the floor!”
The tragedy in Elsa's eyes at this awful relation of the cruelty of the sterner sex called for a spoken sympathy, and I said at once, and heartily: “That was horrid of him! If I were you I'd never give him another flower.”
In accordance with the natural impulses of her sex, Elsa seemed pleased at my disapproval of Louis's behavior, but she by no means looked as if she would never again bestow her favor upon him. She smiled and tossed her head, and seemed willing enough for further conversation, but for the moment I felt that I had enough food for thought. So I dismissed Elsa, having first admonished her not to repeat our conversation to any one. In order to make sure that I should be obeyed in this matter, I threatened her with some unknown terrors which the law would bring upon her if she disobeyed me. When I felt sure she was thoroughly frightened into secrecy concerning our interview, I sent her away and began to cogitate on what she had told me.
If Louis came to the house late that night, as by his own admission he did; if he went around the house on the side of the office, as the straying transfer seemed to me to prove; and if, at the time, he was wearing in his coat a yellow rose with petals similar to those found on the office floor the next morning, was not one justified in looking more deeply into the record of Louis the valet?