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 schoolgirl.
“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.”
“Yes,” I said gravely; “it would have been better if you had come at first, with your story. Have you anyone to substantiate it, or any proofs that it is the truth?”
The blue eyes regarded me with an injured expression. Then she brightened again.
“Oh, yes, I can ‘prove property’; that’s what you mean, isn’t it? I can tell you which glove finger is ripped, and just how much money is in the bag, and—and here’s a handkerchief exactly like the one I carried that night. Jack said if I told you all these things, you’d know it’s my bag, and not Miss Lloyd’s.”
“And then, there was a card in it.”
“A card? My card?”
“No, not your card; a card with another name on it. Don’t you know whose?”
Mrs. Cunningham thought for a moment. Then, “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Purvis gave me her card, and I tucked it in the pocket of the bag. Was that the way you discovered the bag was mine? And how did that make you know it.”
“I’ll tell you about that some other time if you wish, Mrs. Cunningham; but just now I want to get at the important part of your story. How did your gold bag get in Mr. Crawford’s office?”
“Ah, how did it?” The laughing face was sober now and she seemed appalled at the question. “Jack says someone must have found it in the car-seat where I left it, and he”—she lowered her voice—“he must be the—”
“The murderer,” I supplied calmly. “It does look that way. You have witnesses, I suppose, who saw you in that train?”
“Mercy, yes! Lots of them. The train reaches Marathon Park at 12:50, and is due here at one o’clock. Ever so many people got out at our station. There were six in our own party, and others besides. And the conductor knows me, and everybody knows Jack. He’s Mr. John Le Roy Cunningham.”
It was impossible to doubt all this. Further corroboration it might be well to get, but there was not the slightest question in my mind as to the little lady’s truthfulness.
“I thank you, Mrs. Cunningham,” I said, “for coming to us with your story. You may not be able to get your bag today, but I assure you it will, be sent to you as soon as a few inquiries can be made. These are merely for the sake of formalities, for, as you say, your fellow townspeople can certify to your presence on the train, and your leaving it at the Marathon Park station.”
“Yes,” she replied; “and”—she handed me a paper—“there’s my husband’s address, and
