“I don’t think so,” I retorted; “I think you went around the house that way, I think you paused at the office window—”
Just here I made a dramatic pause myself, hoping thus to appeal to the emotional nature of my victim. And I succeeded. Louis almost shrieked as he pressed his hands against his eyes, and cried out: “No! no! I tell you I did not go round that way! I go round the other way, and the wind—the wind, he blow my transfer all about!”
I tried a more quiet manner, I tried persuasive arguments, I finally resorted to severity and even threats, but no admission could I get from Louis, except that he had not gone round the house by way of the office. I was positive the man was lying, and I was equally positive that Miss Lloyd knew he was lying, and that she knew why, but the matter seemed to me at a deadlock. I could have questioned her, but I preferred to do that when Louis was not present. If she must suffer ignominy it need not be before a servant. So I dismissed Louis, perhaps rather curtly, and turning to Miss Lloyd, I asked her if she believed his assertion that he did not pass by the office that night.
“I don’t know what I believe,” she answered, wearily drawing her hand across her brow. “And I can’t see that it matters anyway. Supposing he did go by the office, you certainly don’t suspect him of my uncle’s murder, do you?”
“It is my duty, Miss Lloyd,” I said gently, for the girl was pitiably nervous, “to get the testimony of anyone who was in or near the office that night. But of course testimony is useless unless it is true.”
I looked her straight in the eyes as I said this, for I was thoroughly convinced that her own testimony at the inquest had not been entirely true.
I think she understood my glance, for she arose at once, and said with extreme dignity: “I cannot see any necessity for prolonging this interview, Mr. Burroughs. It is of course your work to discover the truth or falsity of Louis’s story, but I cannot see that it in any way implicates or even interests me.”
The girl was superb. Her beauty was enhanced by the sudden spirit she showed, and her flashing dark eyes suggested a baited animal at bay. Apparently she had reached the limit of her endurance, and was unwilling to be questioned further or drawn into further admissions. And yet, some inexplicable idea came to me that she was angry, not with me, but with the tangle in which I had remorselessly enmeshed her. Of a high order of intelligence, she knew perfectly well that I was conscious of the fact that there was a secret of some sort between her and the valet. Her haughty disdain, I felt sure, was to convey the impression that though there might be a secret between them, it was no collusion or working together, and that though her understanding with the man was mysterious, it was in no way beneath her dignity. Her imperious air as she quietly left the room thrilled me anew, and I began to think that a woman who could assume the haughty demeanor of an empress might have chosen, as empresses had done before her, to commit crime.
However, she went away, and the dark and stately library seemed to have lost its only spot of light and charm. I sat for a few minutes pondering over it all, when I saw passing through the hall, the maid, Elsa. It suddenly occurred to me, that having failed with the mistress of the house, I might succeed better with her maid, so I called the girl in.
She came willingly enough, and though she seemed timid, she was not embarrassed or afraid.
“I’m in authority here,” I said, “and I’m going to ask you some questions, which you must answer truthfully.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, without any show of interest.
“Have you been with Miss Lloyd long?”
“Yes, sir; about four years, sir.”
“Is she a kind mistress?”
“Indeed she is, sir. She is the loveliest lady I ever worked for. I’d do anything for Miss Lloyd, that I would.”
“Well, perhaps you can best serve her by telling all you know about the events of Tuesday night.”
“But I don’t know anything, sir,” and Elsa’s eyes opened wide in absolutely unfeigned wonderment.
“Nothing about the actual murder; no, of course not. But I just want you to tell me a few things about some minor matters. Did you take the yellow flowers from the box that was sent to Miss Lloyd?”
“Yes, sir; I always untie her parcels. And as she was at dinner, I arranged the flowers in a vase of water.”
“How many flowers were there?”
For some reason this simple query disturbed the girl greatly. She flushed scarlet, and then she turned pale. She twisted the corner of her apron in her nervous fingers, and then said, only half audibly, “I don’t know, sir.”
“Oh, yes, you do, Elsa,” I said in kindly tones, being anxious not to frighten her; “tell me how many there were. Were there not a dozen?”
“I don’t know, sir; truly I don’t. I didn’t count them at all.”
It was impossible to disbelieve her; she was plainly telling the truth. And, too, why should she count the roses? The natural thing would be not to count them, but merely to put them in the vase as she had said. And yet, there was something about those flowers that Elsa knew and wouldn’t tell. Could it be that I was on the track of that missing twelfth rose? I knew, though perhaps Elsa did not, how many roses the florist had sent in that box. And unless Gregory Hall had abstracted one at the time of his purchase, the twelfth rose had been taken by someone else after the flowers reached
