Part 41

“Yes--Mr. Porter.”

“Did you know it was Mr. Porter, at the time he was here?”

“No; I think not. I didn't think at all who it might be. Uncle Joseph often had men to call in the evening.”

“About what time did Mr. Porter leave?”

“A few minutes before ten. I heard Lambert say, `Good-night, sir,' as he closed the door after him.”

“And soon after, you and Mrs. Pierce went upstairs?”

“Yes; only a few minutes after.”

“And, later, Mrs. Pierce came to your room?”

“Yes; about half-past ten, I should say; she came to get a book. She didn't stay two minutes.”

“And after that, you went down-stairs again to speak to your uncle?” For the merest instant Miss Lloyd's eyes closed and she swayed as if about to faint, but she regained her composure at once, and answered with some asperity,

“I did not. I have told you that I did not leave my room again that night.”

Her dark eyes blazed, her cheeks flushed, and though her full lower lip quivered it was with anger now, not fear.

As I watched her, I wondered how I could have thought her more beautiful when pale. Surely with this glowing color she was at her glorious best.

“Then when did you drop the two rose petals there?” I went on, calmly enough, though my own heart was beating fast.

“I did not drop them. They were left there by some intruder.”

“But, Miss Lloyd,” and I observed her closely, “the petals were from a rose such as those Mr. Hall sent you that evening. The florist assures me there were no more such blossoms in West Sedgwick at that time. The fallen petals, then, were from one of your own roses, or--”

“Or?” asked Miss Lloyd, her hands pressed against the laces at her throbbing bosom. “Or?”

“Or,” I went on, “from a rose worn by some one who had come out from New York on a late train.”

For the moment I chose to ignore Louis's rose for I wanted to learn anything Miss Lloyd could tell me. And, too, the yellow petals might have fallen from a flower in Hall's coat after all. I thought it possible by suggesting this idea, to surprise from her some hint as to whether she had any suspicion of him.

She gave a gasp, and, leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes, as if spent with a useless struggle.

“Wait a moment,” she said, putting out her hand with an imploring gesture. “Wait a moment. Let me think. I will tell you all, but--wait--”

With her eyes still closed, she lay back against the satin chair cushion, and I gazed at her, fascinated.

I knew it! Then and there the knowledge came to me! Not her guilt, not her innocence. The crime seemed far away then, but I knew like a flash not only that I loved this girl, this Florence Lloyd, but that I should never love any one else. It mattered not that she was betrothed to another man; the love that had suddenly sprung to life in my heart was such pure devotion that it asked no return. Guilty or innocent, I loved her. Guilty or innocent, I would clear her; and if the desire of her heart were toward another, she should ever know or suspect my adoration for her.

I gazed at her lovely face, knowing that when her eyes opened I must discreetly turn my glance aside, but blessing every instant of opportunity thus given me.

Her countenance, though troubled and drawn with anxiety, was so pure and sweet that I felt sure of her innocence. But it should be my work to prove that to the world.

Suddenly her eyes flashed open; again her mood had changed.

“Mr. Burroughs,” she said, and there was almost a challenge in her tone, “why do you ask me these things? You are a detective, you are here to find out for yourself, not to ask others to find out. I am innocent of my uncle's death, of course, but when you cast suspicion on the man to whom I am betrothed, you cannot expect me to help you confirm that suspicion. You have made me think by your remark about a man on a late train that you refer to Mr. Hall. Do you?”

This was a change of base, indeed. I was being questioned instead of doing the catechising myself. Very well; if it were my lady's will to challenge me, I would meet her on her own ground.