“Is this yours?” asked Mr. Monroe, suddenly whisking into sight the gold-mesh bag.

Probably his intent had been to startle her, and thus catch her off her guard.  If so, he succeeded, for the girl was certainly startled, if only at the suddenness of the query.

“N-no,” she stammered; “it’s ­it’s not mine.”

“Are you sure?” the coroner went on, a little more gently, doubtless moved by her agitation.

“I’m ­I’m quite sure.  Where did you find it?”

“What size gloves do you wear, Miss Lloyd?”

“Number six.”  She said this mechanically, as if thinking of something else, and her face was white.

“These are number six,” said the coroner, as he took a pair of gloves from the bag.  “Think again, Miss Lloyd.  Do you not own a gold-chain bag, such as this?”

“I have one something like that ­or, rather, I did have one.”

“Ah!  And what did you do with it?”

“I gave it to my maid, Elsa, some days ago.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I was tired of it, and as it was a trifle worn, I had ceased to care to carry it.”

“Is it not a somewhat expensive trinket to turn over to your maid?”

“No; they are not real gold.  At least, I mean mine was not.  It was gilt over silver, and cost only about twelve or fourteen dollars when new.”

“What did you usually carry in it?”

“What every woman carries in such a bag.  Handkerchief, some small change, perhaps a vanity-box, gloves, tickets ­whatever would be needed on an afternoon’s calling or shopping tour.”

“Miss Lloyd, you have enumerated almost exactly the articles in this bag.”

“Then that is a coincidence, for it is not my bag.”

The girl was entirely self-possessed again, and even a little aggressive.

I admit that I did not believe her statements.  Of course I could not be sure she was telling untruths, but her sudden embarrassment at the first sight of the bag, and the way in which she regained her self-possession, made me doubt her clear conscience in the matter.

Parmalee, who had come over and sat beside me, whispered:  “Striking coincidence, isn’t it?”

Although his sarcasm voiced my own thoughts, yet it irritated me horribly to hear him say it.

“But ninety-nine women out of a hundred would experience the same coincidence,” I returned.

“But the other ninety-eight weren’t in the house last night, and she was.”

At this moment Mrs. Pierce, whom I had suspected of feeling far deeper interest than she had so far shown, volunteered a remark.

“Of course that isn’t Florence’s bag,” she said; “if Florence had gone to her uncle’s office last evening, she would have been wearing her dinner gown, and certainly would not carry a street bag.”

“Is this a street bag?” inquired Mr. Monroe, looking with a masculine helplessness at the gilt bauble.

“Of course it is,” said Mrs. Pierce, who now that she had found her voice, seemed anxious to talk.  “Nobody ever carries a bag like that in the house, ­in the evening.”

“But,” began Parmalee, “such a thing might have occurred, if Miss Lloyd had had occasion to go to her uncle’s office with, we will say, papers or notes.”

Personally I thought this an absurd suggestion, but Mr. Monroe seemed to take it seriously.

“That might be,” he said, and I could see that momentarily the suspicions against Florence Lloyd were growing in force and were taking definite shape.

As I noted the expressions, on the various faces, I observed that only Mr. Philip Crawford and the jurors Hamilton and Porter seemed entirely in sympathy with the girl.  The coroner, Parmalee, and even the lawyer, Randolph, seemed to be willing, almost eager for her to incriminate herself.

Gregory Hall, who should have been the most sympathetic of all, seemed the most coldly indifferent, and as for Mrs. Pierce, her actions were so erratic and uncertain, no one could tell what she thought.

“You are quite positive it is not your bag?” repeated the coroner once more.

“I’m positive it is not mine,” returned Miss Lloyd, without undue emphasis, but with an air of dismissing the subject.

“Is your maid present?” asked the coroner.  “Let her be summoned.”

Elsa came forward, the pretty, timid young girl, of German effects, whom I had already noticed.

“Have you ever seen this bag before?” asked the coroner, holding it up before her.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“This morning, sir.  Lambert showed it to me, sir.  He said he found it in Mr. Crawford’s office.”

The girl was very pale, and trembled pitiably.  She seemed afraid of the coroner, of Lambert, of Miss Lloyd, and of the jury.  It might have been merely the unreasonable fear of an ignorant mind, but it had the appearance of some more definite apprehension.

Especially did she seem afraid of the man, Louis.  Though perhaps the distressed glances she cast at him were not so much those of fear as of anxiety.

The coroner spoke kindly to her, and really seemed to take more notice of her embarrassment, and make more effort to put her at her ease than he had done with Miss Lloyd.

“Is it Miss Lloyd’s bag?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Don’t you know?  As her personal maid, you must be acquainted with her belongings.”

“Yes, sir.  No, it isn’t hers, sir.”

But as this statement was made after a swift but noticeable glance of inquiry at her mistress, a slight distrust of Elsa formed in my own mind, and probably in the minds of others.

“She has one like this, has she not?”

“She ­she did have, sir; but she ­she gave it to me.”

“Yes?  Then go and get it and let us see it.”

“I haven’t it now, sir.  I ­I gave it away.”

“Oh, you gave it away!  To whom?  Can you get it back?”

“No, sir; I gave it to my cousin, who sailed for Germany last week.”

Miss Lloyd looked up in surprise, and that look of surprise told against her.  I could see Parmalee’s eyes gleam as he concluded in his own mind that the bag story was all false, was made up between mistress and maid, and that the part about the departing cousin was an artistic touch added by Elsa.

The coroner, too, seemed inclined to disbelieve the present witness, and he sat thoughtfully snapping the catch of the bag.

He turned again to Miss Lloyd.  “Having given away your own bag,” he said suavely, “you have perhaps provided yourself with another, have you not?”

“Why, no, I haven’t,” said Florence Lloyd.  “I have been intending to do so, and shall get one shortly, but I haven’t yet selected it.”

“And in the meantime you have been getting along without any?”

“A gold-mesh bag is not an indispensable article; I have several bags of other styles, and I’m in no especial haste to purchase a new one.”

Miss Lloyd’s manner had taken on several degrees of hauteur, and her voice was incisive in its tone.  Clearly she resented this discussion of her personal belongings, and as she entirely repudiated the ownership of the bag in the coroner’s possession, she was annoyed at his questions.

Mr. Monroe looked at her steadily.

“If this is not your bag, Miss Lloyd,” he said, with some asperity, “how did it get on Mr. Crawford’s desk late last night?  The butler has assured me it was not there when he looked in at a little after ten o’clock.  Yet this morning it lay there, in plain sight on the desk.  Whose bag is it?”

“I have not the slightest idea,” said Miss Lloyd firmly; “but, I repeat, it is not mine.”

“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?”