Part 33

“Yes; I grant he had the same motive. But he is known to have left town at six that evening, and did not return until nearly noon the next day. That lets him out.”

“Yes, unless he came back at midnight, and then went back to the city again.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Goodrich. “That's fanciful. Why, the latest train--the theatre train, as we call it--gets in at one o'clock, and it's always full of our society people returning from gayeties in New York. He would have been seen had he come on that train, and there is no later one.”

I didn't stay to discuss the matter further. Indeed, Mr. Goodrich had made me feel that my theories were fanciful.

But whatever my theories might be there were still facts to be investigated.

Remembering my determination to examine that gold bag more thoroughly I asked Mr. Goodrich to let me see it, for of course, as district attorney, it was now in his possession.

He gave it to me with an approving nod. “That's the way to work,” he said. “That bag is your evidence. Now from that, you detectives must go ahead and learn the truth.”

“Whose bag is it?” I said, with the intention of drawing him out.

“It's Miss Lloyd's bag,” he said gravely. “Any woman in the world would deny its ownership, in the existing circumstances, and I am not surprised that she did so. Nor do I blame her for doing so. Self preservation is a mighty strong impulse in the human heart, and we've all got a right to obey it.”

As I took the gold bag from his hand, I didn't in the least believe that Florence Lloyd was the owner of it, and I resolved anew to prove this to the satisfaction of everybody concerned.

Mr. Goodrich turned away and busied himself about other matters, and I devoted myself to deep study.

The contents of the bag proved as blank and unsuggestive as ever. The most exhaustive examination of its chain, its clasp and its thousands of links gave me not the tiniest thread or shred of any sort.

But as I poked and pried around in its lining I found a card, which had slipped between the main lining and an inside pocket.

I drew it out as carefully as I could, and it proved to be a small plain visiting card bearing the engraved name, “Mrs. Egerton Purvis.”

I sat staring at it, and then furtively glanced at Mr. Goodrich. He was not observing me, and I instinctively felt that I did not wish him to know of the card until I myself had given the matter further thought.

I returned the card to its hiding place and returned the bag to Mr. Goodrich, after which I went away.

I had not copied the name, for it was indelibly photographed upon my brain. As I walked along the street I tried to construct the personality of Mrs. Egerton Purvis from her card. But I was able to make no rational deductions, except that the name sounded aristocratic, and was quite in keeping with the general effect of the bag and its contents.

To be sure I might have deduced that she was a lady of average height and size, because she wore a number six glove; that she was careful of her personal appearance, because she possessed a vanity case; that she was of tidy habits, because she evidently expected to send her gowns to be cleaned. But all these things seemed to me puerile and even ridiculous, as such characteristics would apply to thousands of woman all over the country.

Instead of this, I went straight to the telegraph office and wired to headquarters in a cipher code. I instructed them to learn the identity and whereabouts of Mrs. Egerton Purvis, and advise me as soon as possible.

Then I returned to the Sedgwick Arms, feeling decidedly well satisfied with my morning's work, and content to wait until after Mr. Crawford's funeral to do any further real work in the matter.

X. THE WILL

I went to the Crawford house on the day of the funeral; but as I reached there somewhat earlier than the hour appointed, I went into the office with the idea of looking about for further clues.

In the office I found Gregory Hall; looking decidedly disturbed.

“I can't find Mr. Crawford's will,” he said, as he successively looked through one drawer after another.

“What!” I responded. “Hasn't that been located already?”

“No; it's this way: I didn't see it here in this office, or in the New York office, so I assumed Mr. Randolph had it in his possession. But it seems he thought it was here, all the time. Only this morning we discovered our mutual error, and Mr. Randolph concluded it must be in Mr. Crawford's safety deposit box at the bank in New York. So Mr. Philip Crawford hurried through his administration papers--he is to be executor of the estate--and went in to get it from the bank. But he has just returned with the word that it wasn't there. So we've no idea where it is.”

“Oh, well,” said I, “since he hadn't yet made the new will he had in mind, everything belongs to Miss Lloyd.”

“That's just the point,” said Hall, his face taking on a despairing look. “If we don't find that will, she gets nothing!”