"Easy enough to see the trend of Monroe's questions," said Parmalee in my ear. "If he can prove this bag to be Miss Lloyd's, it shows that she was in the office after ten o'clock last night, and this she has denied."
"Don't you believe her?" said I.
"Indeed I don't. Of course she was there, and of course it's her bag. She put that pretty maid of hers up to deny it, but any one could see the maid was lying, also."
"Oh, come now, Parmalee, that's too bad! You've no right to say such things!"
"Oh, pshaw! you think the same yourself, only you think it isn't chivalrous to put it into words."
Of course what annoyed me in Parmalee's speech was its inherent truth. I didn't believe Florence Lloyd. Much as I wanted to, I couldn't; for the appearance, manner and words of both women were not such as to inspire belief in their hearers.
If she and Elsa were in collusion to deny her ownership of the bag, it would be hard to prove the contrary, for the men-servants could not be supposed to know, and I had no doubt Mrs. Pierce would testify as Miss Lloyd did on any matter.
I was sorry not to put more confidence in the truth of the testimony I was hearing, but I am, perhaps, sceptical by nature. And, too, if Florence Lloyd were in any way implicated in the death of her uncle, I felt pretty sure she would not hesitate at untruth.
Her marvellous magnetism attracted me strongly, but it did not blind me to the strength of her nature. While I could not, as yet, believe her in any way implicated in the death of her uncle, I was fully convinced she knew more concerning it than she had told and I knew, unless forced to, she would not tell what she desired to keep secret.
My sympathy, of course, was with her, but my duty was plain. As a detective, I must investigate fairly, or give up the case.
At this juncture, I knew the point at issue was the presence of Miss Lloyd in the office last night, and the two yellow rose petals I had picked up on the floor might prove a clue.
At any rate it was my duty to investigate the point, so taking a card from my pocket I wrote upon it: "Find out if Miss Lloyd wore any flowers last evening, and what kind."
I passed this over to Mr. Monroe, and rather enjoyed seeing his mystification as he read it.
To my surprise he did not question Florence Lloyd immediately, but turned again to the maid.
"At what time did your mistress go to her room last evening?"
"At about ten o'clock, sir. I was waiting there for her, and so I am sure."
"Did she at once retire?"
"No, sir. She changed her evening gown for a teagown, and then said she would sit up for an hour or so and write letters, and I needn't wait."
"You left her then?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did Miss Lloyd wear any flowers at dinner last evening?"
"No, sir. There were no guests—only the family."
"Ah, quite so. But did she, by chance, pin on any flowers after she went to her room?"
"Why, yes, sir; she did. A box of roses had come for her by a messenger, and when she found them in her room, she pinned one on the lace of her teagown."
"Yes? And what time did the flowers arrive?"
"While Miss Lloyd was at dinner, sir. I took them from the box and put them in water, sir."
"And what sort of flowers were they?"
"Yellow roses, sir."
"That will do, Elsa. You are excused."
The girl looked bewildered, and a little embarrassed as she returned to her place among the other servants, and Miss Lloyd looked a little bewildered also.
But then, for that matter, no body understood the reason for the questions about the flowers, and though most of the jury merely looked preternaturally wise on the subject, Mr. Orville scribbled it all down in his little book. I was now glad to see the man keep up his indefatigable note-taking. If the reporters or stenographers missed any points, I could surely get them from him.
But from the industry with which he wrote, I began to think he must be composing an elaborate thesis on yellow roses and their habits.
Mr. Porter, looking greatly puzzled, observed to the coroner, "I have listened to your inquiries with interest; and I would like to know what, if any, special importance is attached to this subject of yellow roses."
"I'm not able to tell you," replied Mr. Monroe. "I asked these questions at the instigation of another, who doubtless has some good reason for them, which he will explain in due time."
Mr. Porter seemed satisfied with this, and I nodded my head at the coroner, as if bidding him to proceed.
But if I had been surprised before at the all but spoken intelligence which passed between the two servants, Elsa and Louis, I was more amazed now. They shot rapid glances at each other, which were evidently full of meaning to themselves. Elsa was deathly white, her lips trembled, and she looked at the Frenchman as if in terror of her life. But though he glanced at her meaningly, now and then, Louis's anxiety seemed to me to be more for Florence Lloyd than for her maid.
But now the coroner was talking very gravely to Miss Lloyd.
"Do you corroborate," he was saying, "the statements of your maid about the flowers that were sent you last evening?"
"I do," she replied.
"From whom did they come?"
"From Mr. Hall."
"Mr. Hall," said, the coroner, turning toward the young man, "how could you send flowers to Miss Lloyd last evening if you were in New York City?"
"Easily," was the cool reply. "I left Sedgwick on the six o'clock train. On my way to the station I stopped at a florist's and ordered some roses sent to Miss Lloyd. If they did not arrive until she was at dinner, they were not sent immediately, as the florist promised."
"When did you receive them, Miss Lloyd?"
"They were in my room when I event up there at about ten o'clock last evening," she replied, and her face showed her wonderment at these explicit questions.
The coroner's face showed almost as much wonderment, and I said: "Perhaps, Mr. Monroe, I may ask a few questions right here."
"Certainly," he replied.
And thus it was, for the first time in my life, I directly addressed Florence Lloyd.
"When you went up to your room at ten o'clock, the flowers were there?" I asked, and I felt a most uncomfortable pounding at my heart because of the trap I was deliberately laying for her. But it had to be done, and even as I spoke, I experienced a glad realization, that if she were innocent, my questions could do her no harm.
"Yes," she repeated, and for the first time favored me with a look of interest. I doubt if she knew my name or scarcely knew why I was there.
"And you pinned one on your gown?"
"I tucked it in among the laces at my throat, yes."
"Miss Lloyd, do you still persist in saying you did not go down-stairs again, to your uncle's office?"
"I did not," she repeated, but she turned white, and her voice was scarce more than a whisper.
"Then," said I, "how did two petals of a yellow rose happen to be on the floor in the office this morning?"
Chapter VII.
Yellow Roses
If any one expected