THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG
The next day I received a letter addressed in modish, angular penmanship, which, before I opened it, I felt sure had come from Mrs. Cunningham. It ran as follows Mr. HERBERT Burroughs Dear Sir: Yes, I have lost a gold bag, and I have known all along that it is the one the newspapers are talking so much about in connection with the Crawford case. I know, too, that you are the detective on the case, and though I can't imagine how you did it, I think it was awfully clever of you to trace the bag to me, for I'm sure my name wasn't in it anywhere. As I say, the bag is mine, but I didn't kill Mr. Crawford, and I don't know who did.
I would go straight to you, and tell you all about it, but I am afraid of detectives and lawyers, and I don't want to be mixed up in the affair anyway. But I am going to see Miss Lloyd, and explain it all to her, and then she can tell you. Please don't let my name get in the papers, as I hate that sort of prominence.
Very truly yours, ELIZABETH CUNNINGHAM.
I smiled a little over the femininity of the letter, but as Parmalee had prophesied, Marathon Park was evidently no place to look for our criminal.
The foolish little woman who had written that letter, had no guilty secret on her conscience, of that I was sure.
I telephoned for Parmalee and showed him the letter.
"It doesn't help us in one way," he said, "for of course, Mrs.
Cunningham is not implicated. But the bag is still a clue, for how did it get into Mr. Crawford's office?"
"We must find out who Mr. Cunningham is," I suggested.
"He's not the criminal, either. If he had left his wife's bag there, he never would have let her send this letter."
"Perhaps he didn't know she wrote it."
"Oh, perhaps lots of things! But I am anxious to learn what Mrs.
Cunningham tells Miss Lloyd."
"Let us go over to the Crawford house, and tell Miss Lloyd about it."
"Not this morning; I've another engagement. And besides, the little lady won't get around so soon."
"Why a little lady?" I asked, smiling.
"Oh, the whole tone of the letter seems to imply a little yellow-haired butterfly of a woman."
"Just the reverse of Florence Lloyd," I said musingly.
"Yes; no one could imagine Miss Lloyd writing a letter like that.
There's lots of personality in a woman's letter. Much more than in a man's."
Parmalee went away, and prompted by his suggestions, I studied the letter I had just received. It was merely an idle fancy, for if Mrs. Cunningham was going to tell Miss Lloyd her story, it made little difference to me what might be her stature or the color of her hair. But, probably because of Parmalee's suggestion, I pictured her to myself as a pretty young woman with that air of half innocence and half ignorance which so well becomes the plump blonde type.
The broad veranda of the Sedgwick Arms was a pleasant place to sit, and I had mused there for some time, when Mr. Carstairs came out to tell me that I was asked for on the telephone. The call proved to be from Florence Lloyd asking me to come to her at once.
Only too glad to obey this summons, I went directly to the Crawford house, wondering if any new evidence had been brought to light.
Lambert opened the door for me, and ushered me into the library, where Florence was receiving a lady caller.
"Mrs. Cunningham," said Florence, as I entered, "may I present Mr. Burroughs - Mr. Herbert Burroughs. I sent for you," she added, turning to me, "because Mrs. Cunningham has an important story to tell, and I thought you ought to hear it at once."
I bowed politely to the stranger, and awaited her disclosures.
Mrs. Cunningham was a pretty, frivolous-looking woman, with appealing blue eyes, and a manner half-childish, half-apologetic.
I smiled involuntarily to see how nearly her appearance coincided with the picture in my mind, and I greeted her almost as if she were a previous acquaintance.
"I know I've done very wrong," she began, with a nervous little flutter of her pretty hands; "but I'm ready now to 'fess up, as the children say."
She looked at me, so sure of an answering smile, that I gave it, and said "Let us hear your confession, Mrs. Cunningham; I doubt if it's a very dreadful one."
"Well, you see," she went on, "that gold bag is mine."
"Yes," I said; "how did it get here?"
"I've no idea," she replied, and I could see that her shallow nature fairly exulted in the sensation she was creating. "I went to New York that night, to the theatre, and I carried my gold bag, and I left it in the train when I got out at the station."
"West Sedgwick?" I asked.
"No; I live at Marathon Park, the next station to this."
"Next on the way to New York?"
"Yes. And when I got out of the train - I was with my husband and some other people - we had been to a little theatre party - I missed the bag. But I didn't tell Jack, because I knew he'd scold me for being so careless. I thought I'd get it back from the Lost and Found Department, and then, the very next day, I read in the paper about the - the - awful accident, and it told about a gold bag being found here."
"You recognized it as yours?"
"Of course; for the paper described everything in it - even to the cleaner's advertisement that I'd just cut out that very day."
"Why didn't you come and claim it at once?"
"Oh, Mr. Burroughs, you must know why I didn't! Why, I was scared 'most to death to read the accounts of the terrible affair; and to mix in it, myself - ugh! I couldn't dream of anything so horrible."
It was absurd, but I had a desire to shake the silly little bundle of femininity who told this really important story, with the twitters and simpers of a silly school-girl.
"And you would not have come, if I had not written you?"
She hesitated. "I think I should have come soon, even without your letter."
"Why, Mrs. Cunningham?"
"Well, I kept it secret as long as I could, but yesterday Jack saw that I had something on my mind. I couldn't fool him any longer."
"As to your having a mind!" I said to myself, but I made no comment aloud.
"So I told him all about it, and he said I must come at once and tell Miss Lloyd, because, you see, they thought it was her bag all the time."