"Nonsense, Dad!" cried a strong, young voice, and his son, Philip, Jr., bounded into the room and grasped his father's hands. "I overheard a few of your last words, and you two are on the wrong track. Florrie's no more mixed up in that horrible business than I am. Neither is Hall. He's a fool chap, but no villain. I heard what you said about the late newspaper, but lots of people come out on that midnight train. You may as well suspect some peaceable citizen coming home from the theatre, as to pick out poor Hall, without a scrap of evidence to point to him."

I was relieved beyond all words at the hearty assurance of the boy, and I plucked up new courage. Apprehension had made me faint-hearted, but if he could show such flawless confidence in Florence and her betrothed, surely I could do as much.

"Good for you, young man!" I cried, shaking his hand. "You've cheered me up a lot. I'll take a fresh start, and surely we'll find out something. But I'd like to send for Stone."

"Wait a bit, wait a bit," said Mr. Crawford. "Phil's right; there's no possibility of Florrie or Hall in the matter. Leave the gold bag, the newspapers, and the yellow posies out of consideration, and go to work in some sensible way."

"How about Mr. Joseph's finances?" I asked. "Are they in satisfactory shape?"

"Never finer," said Philip Crawford. "Joseph was a very rich man, and all due to his own clever and careful investments. A bit of a speculator, but always on the right side of the market.

Why, he fairly had a corner in X.Y. stock. Just that deal - and it will go through in a few days - means a fortune in itself. I shall settle that on Florence."

"Then you think the will will never be found?" I said.

Mr. Crawford looked a little ashamed, as well he might, but he only said "If it is, no one will be more glad than I to see Florrie reinstated in her own right. If no will turns up, Joe's estate is legally mine, but I shall see that Florence is amply provided for."

He spoke with a proud dignity, and I was rather sorry I had caught him up so sharply.

I went back to the inn, and, after vainly racking my brain over it all for a time, I turned in, but to a miserably broken night's rest.

A CALL ON Mrs. PURVIS he next morning I received information from headquarters. It was a long-code telegram, and I eagerly deciphered it, to learn that Mrs. Egerton Purvis was an English lady who was spending a few months in New York City. She was staying at the Albion Hotel, and seemed to be in every way above suspicion of any sort.

Of course I started off at once to see Mrs. Purvis.

Parmalee came just as I was leaving the inn, and was of course anxious and inquisitive to know where I was going, and what I was going to do.

At first I thought I would take him into my confidence, and I even thought of taking him with me. But I felt sure I could do better work alone. It might be that Mrs. Egerton Purvis should turn out to be an important factor in the case, and I suppose it was really an instinct of vanity that made me prefer to look her up without Parmalee by my side.

So I told him that I was going to New York on a matter in connection with the case, but that I preferred to go alone, but I would tell him the entire result of my mission as soon as I returned. I think he was a little disappointed, but he was a good-natured chap, and bade me a cheerful goodby, saying he would meet me on my return.

I went to New York and went straight to the Albion Hotel.

Learning at the desk that the lady was really there, I sent my card up to her with a request for an immediate audience, and very soon I was summoned to her apartment.

She greeted me with that air of frigid reserve typical of an English woman. Though not unattractive to look at, she possessed the high cheekbones and prominent teeth which are almost universal in the women of her nation. She was perhaps between thirty and forty years old, and had the air of a grande dame.

"Mr. Burroughs?" she said, looking through her lorgnon at my card, which she held in her hand.

"Yes," I assented, and judging from her appearance that she was a woman of a decided and straightforward nature I came at once to the point.

"I'm a detective, madam," I began, and the remark startled her out of her calm.

"A detective!" she cried out, with much the same tone as if I had said a rattlesnake.

"Do not be alarmed, I merely state my profession to explain my errand."

"Not be alarmed! when a detective comes to see me! How can I help it? Why, I've never had such an experience before. It is shocking! I've met many queer people in the States, but not a detective! Reporters are bad enough!"

"Don't let it disturb you so, Mrs. Purvis. I assure you there is nothing to trouble you in the fact of my presence here, unless it is trouble of your own making."

"Trouble of my own making!" she almost shrieked. " Tell me at once what you mean, or I shall ring the bell and have you dismissed."

Her fear and excitement made me think that perhaps I was on the track of new developments, and lest she should carry out her threat of ringing the bell, I plunged at once into the subject.

"Mrs. Purvis, have you lost a gold-mesh bag?" I said bluntly.

"No, I haven't," she snapped, "and if I had, I should take means to recover it, and not wait for a detective to come and ask me about it."

I was terribly disappointed. To be sure she might be telling a falsehood about the bag, but I didn't think so. She was angry, annoyed, and a little frightened at my intrusion, but she was not at all embarrassed at my question.

"Are you quite sure you have not lost a gold-link bag?" I insisted, as if in idiotic endeavor to persuade her to have done so.

"Of course I'm sure," she replied, half laughing now; "I suppose I should know it if I had done so."

"It's a rather valuable bag," I went on, "with a gold frame-work and gold chain."

"Well, if it's worth a whole fortune, it isn't my bag," she declared; "for I never owned such a one."

"Well," I said, in desperation, "your visiting card is in it."