I was sorry not to put more confidence in the truth of the testimony I was hearing, but I am, perhaps, sceptical by nature.  And, too, if Florence Lloyd were in any way implicated in the death of her uncle, I felt pretty sure she would not hesitate at untruth.

Her marvellous magnetism attracted me strongly, but it did not blind me to the strength of her nature.  While I could not, as yet, believe her in any way implicated in the death of her uncle, I was fully convinced she knew more concerning it than she had told and I knew, unless forced to, she would not tell what she desired to keep secret.

My sympathy, of course, was with her, but my duty was plain.  As a detective, I must investigate fairly, or give up the case.

At this juncture, I knew the point at issue was the presence of Miss Lloyd in the office last night, and the two yellow rose petals I had picked up on the floor might prove a clue.

At any rate it was my duty to investigate the point, so taking a card from my pocket I wrote upon it:  “Find out if Miss Lloyd wore any flowers last evening, and what kind.”

I passed this over to Mr. Monroe, and rather enjoyed seeing his mystification as he read it.

To my surprise he did not question Florence Lloyd immediately, but turned again to the maid.

“At what time did your mistress go to her room last evening?”

“At about ten o’clock, sir.  I was waiting there for her, and so I am sure.”

“Did she at once retire?”

“No, sir.  She changed her evening gown for a teagown, and then said she would sit up for an hour or so and write letters, and I needn’t wait.”

“You left her then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Miss Lloyd wear any flowers at dinner last evening?”

“No, sir.  There were no guests—­only the family.”

“Ah, quite so.  But did she, by chance, pin on any flowers after she went to her room?”

“Why, yes, sir; she did.  A box of roses had come for her by a messenger, and when she found them in her room, she pinned one on the lace of her teagown.”

“Yes?  And what time did the flowers arrive?”

“While Miss Lloyd was at dinner, sir.  I took them from the box and put them in water, sir.”

“And what sort of flowers were they?”

“Yellow roses, sir.”

“That will do, Elsa.  You are excused.”

The girl looked bewildered, and a little embarrassed as she returned to her place among the other servants, and Miss Lloyd looked a little bewildered also.

But then, for that matter, no body understood the reason for the questions about the flowers, and though most of the jury merely looked preternaturally wise on the subject, Mr. Orville scribbled it all down in his little book.  I was now glad to see the man keep up his indefatigable note-taking.  If the reporters or stenographers missed any points, I could surely get them from him.