“Miss Lloyd, do you still persist in saying you did not go down-stairs again, to your uncle’s office?”

“I did not,” she repeated, but she turned white, and her voice was scarce more than a whisper.

“Then,” said I, “how did two petals of a yellow rose happen to be on the floor in the office this morning?”

VII

YELLOW ROSES

If any one expected to see Miss Lloyd faint or collapse at this crisis he must have been disappointed, and as I had confidently expected such a scene, I was completely surprised at her quick recovery of self-possession.

For an instant she had seemed stunned by my question, and her eyes had wandered vaguely round the room, as if in a vain search for help.

Her glance returned to me, and in that instant I gave her an answering look, which, quite involuntarily on my part, meant a grave and serious offer of my best and bravest efforts in her behalf.  Disingenuous she might be, untruthful she might be, yes, even a criminal she might be, but in any case I was her sworn ally forever.  Not that I meant to defeat the ends of justice, but I was ready to fight for her or with her, until justice should defeat us.  Of course she didn’t know all this, though I couldn’t help hoping she read a little of it as my eyes looked into hers.  If so, she recognized it only by a swift withdrawal of her own glance.  Again she looked round at her various friends.

Then her eyes rested on Gregory Hall, and, though he gave her no responsive glance, for some reason her poise returned like a flash.  It was as if she had been invigorated by a cold douche.

Determination fairly shone in her dark eyes, and her mouth showed a more decided line than I had yet seen in its red curves, as with a cold, almost hard voice she replied

“I have no idea.  We have many flowers in the house, always.”

“But I have learned from the servants that there were no other yellow roses in the house yesterday.”

Miss Lloyd was not hesitant now.  She replied quickly, and it was with an almost eager haste that she said

“Then I can only imagine that my uncle had some lady visitor in his office late last evening.”

The girl’s mood had changed utterly; her tone was almost flippant, and more than one of the jurors looked at her in wonderment.

Mr. Porter, especially, cast an her a glance of fatherly solicitude, and I was sure that he felt, as I did, that the strain was becoming too much for her.

“I don’t think you quite mean that, Florence,” he said; “you and I knew your uncle too well to say such things.”

But the girl made no reply, and her beautiful mouth took on a hard line.

“It is not an impossible conjecture,” said Philip Crawford thoughtfully.  “If the bag does not belong to Florence, what more probable than that it was left by its feminine owner?  The same lady might have worn or carried yellow roses.”