If the petals found on the floor fell from that twelfth rose, and if Florence Lloyd spoke the truth when she declared she knew nothing of it, then she was free from suspicion in that direction.

But until I could make some further effort to find out about the missing rose I concluded to say nothing of it to anybody. I was not bound to tell Parmalee any points I might discover, for though colleagues, we were working independently of each other.

But as I was anxious to gather any side lights possible, I determined to go for a short conference with the district attorney, in whose hands the case had been put after the coroner's inquest.

He was a man named Goodrich, a quiet mannered, untalkative person, and as might be expected he had made little or no progress as yet.

He said nothing could be done until after the funeral and the reading of the will, which ceremonies would occur the next afternoon.

I talked but little to Mr. Goodrich, yet I soon discovered that he strongly suspected Miss Lloyd of the crime, either as principal or accessory.

"But I can't believe it," I objected. "A girl, delicately brought up, in refined and luxurious surroundings, does not deliberately commit an atrocious crime."

"A woman thwarted in her love affair will do almost anything," declared Mr. Goodrich. "I have had more experience than you, my boy, and I advise you not to bank too much on the refined and luxurious surroundings. Sometimes such things foster crime instead of preventing it. But the truth will come out, and soon, I think. The evidence that seems to point to Miss Lloyd can be easily proved or disproved, once we get at the work in earnest.

That coroner's jury was made up of men who were friends and neighbors of Mr. Crawford. They were so prejudiced by sympathy for Miss Lloyd, and indignation at the unknown criminal, that they couldn't give unbiased judgment. But we will yet see justice done. If Miss Lloyd is innocent, we can prove it. But remember the provocation she was under. Remember the opportunity she had, to visit her uncle alone in his office, after every one else in the house was asleep. Remember that she had a motive - a strong motive - and no one else had."

"Except Mr. Gregory Hall," I said meaningly.

"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.