But there were still important questions to be asked, so, though unwillingly, I returned to the old subject.
"Did you see your uncle's will while you were there?"
"No; he talked about it, but did not show it to me."
"Did he talk about it as if it were still in his possession?"
"Why, yes; I think so. That is, he said he would make a new one unless I gave up Gregory. That implied that the old one was still in existence, though he didn't exactly say so."
"Miss Lloyd, this is important evidence. I must tell you that I shall be obliged to repeat much of it to the district attorney. It seems to me to prove that your uncle did not himself destroy the will."
"He might have done so after I left him."
"I can't think it, for it is not in scraps in the waste-basket, nor are there any paper-ashes in the grate."
"Well, then," she rejoined, "if he didn't destroy it, it may yet be found."
"You wish that very much?" I said, almost involuntarily.
"Oh, I do!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "Not so much for myself as—"
She paused, and I finished the sentence for her "For Mr. Hall."
She looked angry again, but said nothing.
"Well, Miss Lloyd," I said, as I rose to go, "I am going to do everything in my power in your behalf and in behalf of Mr. Hall. But I tell you frankly, unless you will both tell me the truth, and the whole truth, you will only defeat my efforts, and work your own undoing."
I had to look away from her as I said this, for I could not look on that sweet face and say anything even seemingly harsh or dictatorial.
Her lip quivered. "I will do my best," she said tremblingly. "I will try to make Mr. Hall tell where he was that night. I will see you again after I have talked with him."
More collusion! I said good-by rather curtly, I fear, and went quickly away from that perilous presence.
Truly, a nice detective, I! Bowled over by a fair face, I was unable to think clearly, to judge logically, or to work honestly!
Well, I would go home and think it out by myself. Away from her influence I surely would regain my cool-headed methods of thought.
When I reached the inn, I found Mr. Lemuel Porter there waiting for me.
"How do you do, Mr. Burroughs?" he said pleasantly. "Have you time for a half-hour's chat?"
It was just what I wanted. A talk with this clear-thinking man would help me, indeed, and I determined to get his opinions, even as I was ready to give him mine.
"Well, what do you think about it all?" I inquired, after we were comfortably settled at a small table on the shaded veranda, which was a popular gathering-place at this hour. But in our corner we were in no danger from listening ears, and I awaited his reply with interest.
His eyes smiled a little, as he said,
"You know the old story of the man who said he wouldn't hire a dog and then do his own barking. Well, though I haven't 'hired' you, I would be quite ready to pay your honorarium if you can ferret out our West Sedgwick mystery. And so, as you are the detective in charge of the case, I ask you, what do you think about it all?"
But I was pretty thoroughly on my guard now.
"I think," I began, "that much hinges on the ownership of that gold bag."
"And you do not think it is Miss Lloyd's?"
"I do not."
"It need not incriminate her, if it were hers," said Mr. Porter, meditatively knocking the ash from said his cigar. "She might have left it in the office at any time previous to the day of the crime. Women are always leaving such things about. I confess it does not seem to me important."
"Was it on Mr. Crawford's desk when you were there?" I asked suddenly.
He looked up at me quickly, and again that half-smile came into his eyes.
"Am I to be questioned?" he said. "Well, I've no objections, I'm sure. No, I do not think it was there when I called on Mr. Crawford that evening. But I couldn't swear to this, for I am not an observant man, and the thing might have lain there in front of me and never caught my eye. If I had noticed it, of course I should have thought it was Florence's."
"But you don't think so now, do you?"
"No; I can't say I think so. And yet I can imagine a girl untruthfully denying ownership under such circumstances."
I started at this. For hadn't Miss Lloyd untruthfully denied coming down-stairs to talk to her uncle?
"But," went on Mr. Porter, "if the bag is not Florence's, then I can think of but one explanation for its presence there."
"A lady visitor, late at night," I said slowly.
"Yes," was the grave reply; "and though such an occurrence might have been an innocent one, yet, taken in connection with the crime, there is a dreadful possibility."
"Granting this," I suggested, "we ought to be able to trace the owner of the bag."
"Not likely. If the owner of that bag—a woman, presumably—is the slayer of Joseph Crawford, and made her escape from the scene undiscovered, she is not likely to stay around where she may be found. And the bag itself, and its contents, are hopelessly unindividual."
"They are that," I agreed. "Not a thing in it that mightn't be in any woman's bag in this country. To me, that cleaner's advertisement means nothing in connection with Miss Lloyd."
"I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Burroughs. I confess I have had a half-fear that your suspicions had a trend in Florence's direction, and I assure you, sir, that girl is incapable of the slightest impulse toward crime."
"I'm sure of that," I said heartily, my blood bounding in my veins at an opportunity to speak in defense of the woman I loved. "But how if her impulses were directed, or even coerced, by another?"
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"Oh, nothing. But sometimes the best and sweetest women will act against their own good impulses for those they love."
"I cannot pretend to misunderstand you," said Mr. Porter. "But you are wrong. If the one you have in mind—I will say no name—was in any way guiltily implicated, it was without the knowledge or connivance of Florence Lloyd. But, man, the idea is absurd. The individual in question has a perfect alibi."
"He refuses to give it."
"Refuses the details, perhaps. And he has a right to, since they concern no one but himself. No, my friend, you know the French rule; well, follow that, and search for the lady with the gold-mesh bag."
"The lady without it, at present," I said, with an apologetic smile for my rather grim jest.
"Yes; and that's the difficulty. As she hasn't the bag, we can't discover her. So as a clue it is worthless."
"It seems to be," I agreed.
I thought best not to tell Mr. Porter of the card I had found in the bag, for I hoped soon to hear from headquarters concerning the lady whose name it bore. But I told him about the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford's desk, and showed it to him. He did not recognize it as being a portrait of any one he had ever seen. Nor did he take it very seriously as a clue.
"I'm quite sure," he said, "that Joseph Crawford has not been interested in any woman since the death of his wife. He has always seemed devoted to her memory, and as one of his nearest friends, I think I would have known if he had formed any other attachment. Of course, in a matter like this, a man may well have a secret from his nearest friends, but I cannot think this mild and gentle-looking lady is at all concerned in the tragedy."
As a matter