went to New York that night, to the theatre, and I carried my gold bag, and I left it in the train when I got out at the station."
"West Sedgwick?" I asked.
"No; I live at Marathon Park, the next station to this."
"Next on the way to New York?"
"Yes. And when I got out of the train—I was with my husband and some other people—we had been to a little theatre party—I missed the bag. But I didn't tell Jack, because I knew he'd scold me for being so careless. I thought I'd get it back from the Lost and Found Department, and then, the very next day, I read in the paper about the—the—awful accident, and it told about a gold bag being found here."
"You recognized it as yours?"
"Of course; for the paper described everything in it—even to the cleaner's advertisement that I'd just cut out that very day."
"Why didn't you come and claim it at once?"
"Oh, Mr. Burroughs, you must know why I didn't! Why, I was scared 'most to death to read the accounts of the terrible affair; and to mix in it, myself—ugh! I couldn't dream of anything so horrible."
It was absurd, but I had a desire to shake the silly little bundle of femininity who told this really important story, with the twitters and simpers of a silly school-girl.
"And you would not have come, if I had not written you?"
She hesitated. "I think I should have come soon, even without your letter."
"Why, Mrs. Cunningham?"
"Well, I kept it secret as long as I could, but yesterday Jack saw that I had something on my mind. I couldn't fool him any longer."
"As to your having a mind!" I said to myself, but I made no comment aloud.
"So I told him all about it, and he said I must come at once and tell Miss Lloyd, because, you see, they thought it was her bag all the time."
"Yes," I said gravely; "it would have been better if you had come at first, with your story. Have you any one to substantiate it, or any proofs that it is the truth?"
The blue eyes regarded me with an injured expression. Then she brightened again.
"Oh, yes, I can `prove property'; that's what you mean, isn't it? I can tell you which glove finger is ripped, and just how much money is in the bag, and—and here's a handkerchief exactly like the one I carried that night. Jack said if I told you all these things, you'd know it's my bag, and not Miss Lloyd's."
"And then, there was a card in it."
"A card? My card?"
"No, not your card; a card with another name on it. Don't you know whose?"
Mrs. Cunningham thought for a moment. Then, "Oh, yes!" she exclaimed. "Mrs. Purvis gave me her card, and I tucked it in the pocket of the bag. Was that the way you discovered the bag was mine? And how did that make you know it."
"I'll tell you about that some other time if you wish, Mrs. Cunningham; but just now I want to get at the important part of your story. How did your gold bag get in Mr. Crawford's office?"
"Ah, how did it?" The laughing face was sober now and she seemed appalled at the question. "Jack says some one must have found it in the car-seat where I left it, and he"—she lowered her voice—"he must be the—"
"The murderer," I supplied calmly. "It does look that way. You have witnesses, I suppose, who saw you in that train?"
"Mercy, yes! Lots of them. The train reaches Marathon Park at 12: 50, and is due here at one o'clock. Ever so many people got out at our station. There were six in our own party, and others besides. And the conductor knows me, and everybody knows Jack. He's Mr. John Le Roy Cunningham."
It was impossible to doubt all this. Further corroboration it might be well to get, but there was not the slightest question in my mind as to the little lady's truthfulness.
"I thank you, Mrs. Cunningham," I said, "for coming to us with your story. You may not be able to get your bag to-day, but I assure you it will, be sent to you as soon as a few inquiries can be made. These are merely for the sake of formalities, for, as you say, your fellow townspeople can certify to your presence on the train, and your leaving it at the Marathon Park station."
"Yes," she replied; "and"—she handed me a paper—"there's my husband's address, and his lawyer's address, and the addresses of all the people that were in our party that night. Jack said you might like to have the list. He would have come himself to-day, only he's fearfully busy. And I said I didn't mind coming alone, just to see Miss Lloyd. I wouldn't have gone to a jury meeting, though. And I'm in no hurry for the bag. In fact, I don't care much if I never get it. It wasn't the value of the thing that made me come at all, but the fear that my bag might make trouble for Miss Lloyd. Jack said it might. I don't see how, myself, but I'm a foolish little thing, with no head for business matters." She shook her head, and gurgled an absurd little laugh, and then, after a loquacious leave-taking, she went away.
"Well?" I said to Florence, and then, "Well?" Florence said to me.
It was astonishing how rapidly our acquaintance had progressed. Already we had laid aside all formality of speech and manner, and if the girl had not really discovered my mental attitude toward her, at least I think she must have suspected it.
"Of course," I began, "I knew it wasn't your bag, because you said it wasn't. But I did incline a little to the `woman visitor' theory, and now that is destroyed. I think we must conclude that the bag was brought here by the person who found it on that midnight train."
"Why didn't that person turn it over to the conductor?" she said, more as if thinking to herself than speaking to me.
"Yes, why, indeed?" I echoed. "And if he brought it here, and committed a criminal act, why go away and leave it here?"
I think it was at the same moment that the minds of both of us turned to Gregory Hall. Her eyes fell, and as for me, I was nearly stunned with the thoughts that came rushing to my brain.
If the late newspaper had seemed to point to Hall's coming out on that late train, how much more so this bag, which had been left on that very train.
We were silent for a time, and then, lifting her sweet eyes bravely to mine, Florence said,
"I have something to tell you."
"Yes," I replied, crushing down the longing to take her in my arms and let her tell it there.
"Mr. Hall had a talk with me this morning. He says that he and the others have searched everywhere possible for the will, and it cannot be found. He says Uncle Joseph must have destroyed it, and that it is practically settled that Uncle Philip is the legal heir. Of course, Mr. Philip Crawford isn't my uncle, but I have always called him that, and Phil and I have been just like cousins."
"What else did Mr. Hall say?" I asked, for I divined that the difficult part of her recital was yet to come.
"He said," she went on, with a rising color, "that he wished me to break our engagement."
I will do myself the justice to say that although my first uncontrollable thought was one of pure joy at this revelation, yet it was instantly followed by sympathy and consideration for her.
"Why?" I asked in a voice that I tried to keep from being hard.
"He says," she continued, with a note of weariness in her voice, "that he is not a rich man, and cannot give me the comforts and luxuries to which I have been accustomed, and that therefore it is only right for him to release me."
"Of course you didn't accept his generous sacrifice," I said; and my own hopes ran riot as I listened for her answer.
"I told him I was willing to share poverty with him," she said, with a quiet dignity, as if telling an impersonal tale, "but he insisted that the engagement should be broken."
"And is it?" I asked eagerly,