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."