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?
Chapter XII.
Louis's Confession
Elsa had been gone but a few moments when Florence Lloyd returned to the library. I arose to greet her and marvelled at the change which had come over her. Surely here was a girl of a thousand moods. She had left me with an effect of hauteur and disdain; she returned, gentle and charming, almost humble. I could not understand it, and remained standing after she had seated herself, awaiting developments.
"Sit down, Mr. Burroughs," she said, and her low, sweet voice seemed full of cordial invitation. "I'm afraid I was rude to you, when I went away just now; and I want to say that if I can tell you anything you wish to know, I should be glad to do so."
I drew up a chair and seated myself near her. My heart was pounding with excitement at this new phase of the girl's nature. For an instant it seemed