Part 40

“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?

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 as if she must have a personal kindly feeling toward me, and then my reason returned, and with a suddenly falling heart and slowing pulses, I realized that I was a fool, and that after thinking over the disclosures Louis had made, Miss Lloyd had shrewdly concluded it was to her best advantage to curry favor with the detective. This knowledge came to me instinctively, and so I distrusted her gentle voice and winning smile, and hardening my heart against her, I resolved to turn this new mood of hers to my own advantage, and learn what I could while she was willing to converse:

“I'm glad of this opportunity, Miss Lloyd,” I said, “for there are some phases of this affair that I want to discuss with you alone. Let us talk the matter over quietly. It is as well that you should know that there are some doubts felt as to the entire truth of the story you told at the inquest. I do not say this to frighten you,” I added, as the poor girl clasped her hands and gave me a look of dumb alarm; “but, since it is so, I want to do all I can to set the matter right. Do you remember exactly all that took place, to your knowledge, on the night of your uncle's death?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking more frightened still. It was evident that she knew more than she had yet revealed, but I almost forgot my inquiry, so absorbed was I in watching her lovely face. It was even more exquisite in its terrified pallor than when the fleeting pink showed in her cheeks.

“Then,” I said, “let us go over it. You heard your uncle go out at about eight o'clock and return about nine?”

“Yes, I heard the front door open and close both times.”

“You and Mrs. Pierce being in the music-room, of course. Then, later, you heard a visitor enter, and again you heard him leave?”