“I did not.”

VI

THE GOLD BAG

“Is this yours?” asked Mr. Monroe, suddenly whisking into sight the gold-mesh bag.

Probably his intent had been to startle her, and thus catch her off her guard.  If so, he succeeded, for the girl was certainly startled, if only at the suddenness of the query.

“N-no,” she stammered; “it’s—­it’s not mine.”

“Are you sure?” the coroner went on, a little more gently, doubtless moved by her agitation.

“I’m—­I’m quite sure.  Where did you find it?”

“What size gloves do you wear, Miss Lloyd?”

“Number six.”  She said this mechanically, as if thinking of something else, and her face was white.

“These are number six,” said the coroner, as he took a pair of gloves from the bag.  “Think again, Miss Lloyd.  Do you not own a gold-chain bag, such as this?”

“I have one something like that—­or, rather, I did have one.”

“Ah!  And what did you do with it?”

“I gave it to my maid, Elsa, some days ago.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I was tired of it, and as it was a trifle worn, I had ceased to care to carry it.”

“Is it not a somewhat expensive trinket to turn over to your maid?”

“No; they are not real gold.  At least, I mean mine was not.  It was gilt over silver, and cost only about twelve or fourteen dollars when new.”

“What did you usually carry in it?”

“What every woman carries in such a bag.  Handkerchief, some small change, perhaps a vanity-box, gloves, tickets—­whatever would be needed on an afternoon’s calling or shopping tour.”

“Miss Lloyd, you have enumerated almost exactly the articles in this bag.”

“Then that is a coincidence, for it is not my bag.”

The girl was entirely self-possessed again, and even a little aggressive.

I admit that I did not believe her statements.  Of course I could not be sure she was telling untruths, but her sudden embarrassment at the first sight of the bag, and the way in which she regained her self-possession, made me doubt her clear conscience in the matter.

Parmalee, who had come over and sat beside me, whispered:  “Striking coincidence, isn’t it?”

Although his sarcasm voiced my own thoughts, yet it irritated me horribly to hear him say it.

“But ninety-nine women out of a hundred would experience the same coincidence,” I returned.

“But the other ninety-eight weren’t in the house last night, and she was.”

At this moment Mrs. Pierce, whom I had suspected of feeling far deeper interest than she had so far shown, volunteered a remark.

“Of course that isn’t Florence’s bag,” she said; “if Florence had gone to her uncle’s office last evening, she would have been wearing her dinner gown, and certainly would not carry a street bag.”