He showed no elation or ostentation at this state of affairs, but carried himself with an air of quiet dignity, tinged with a suggestion of sadness, which, if merely conventional, seemed none the less sincere.

I soon learned that the whole social atmosphere of West Sedgwick was one of extreme formality, and everything was done in accordance with the most approved conventions.  Therefore, I found I could get no chance for a personal conversation with Miss Lloyd until after the funeral.

I had, however, more or less talk with Gregory Hall, and as I became acquainted with him, I liked him less.

He was of a cold and calculating disposition, and when we were alone, he did not hesitate to gloat openly over his bright prospects.

“Terrible thing, to be put out of existence like that,” he said, as we sat in Mr. Crawford’s office, looking over some papers; “but it solved a big problem for Florence and me.  However, we’ll be married as soon as we decently can, and then we’ll go abroad, and forget the tragic part of it all.”

“I suppose you haven’t a glimmer of a suspicion as to who did it,” I ventured.

“No, I haven’t.  Not the faintest notion.  But I wish you could find out.  Of course, nobody holds up that bag business as against Florence, but—­it’s uncomfortable all the same.  I wish I’d been here that night.  I’m ’most sure I’d have heard a shot, or something.”

“Where were you?” I said, in a careless tone.

Hall drew himself up stiffly.  “Excuse me,” he said.  “I declined to answer that question before.  Since I was not in West Sedgwick, it can matter to no one where I was.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” I returned affably, for I had no desire to get his ill will.  “But of course we detectives have to ask questions.  By the way, where did you buy Miss Lloyd’s yellow roses?”

“See here,” said Gregory Hall, with a petulant expression, “I don’t want to be questioned.  I’m not on the witness-stand, and, as I’ve told you, I’m uncomfortable already about these so-called `clues’ that seem to implicate Miss Lloyd.  So, if you please, I’ll say nothing.”

“All right,” I responded, “just as you like.”

I went away from the house, thinking how foolish people could be.  I could easily discover where he bought the roses, as there were only three florists’ shops in West Sedgwick and I resolved to go at once to hunt up the florist who sold them.

Assuming he would naturally go to the shop nearest the railroad station, and which was also on the way from the Crawford house, I went there first, and found my assumption correct.

The florist was more than willing to talk on the subject.

“Yes, sir,” he said; “I sold those roses to Mr. Hall—­sold ’em to him myself.  He wanted something extra nice, and I had just a dozen of those big yellow beauties.  No, I don’t raise my own flowers.  I get ’em from the city.  And so I had just that dozen, and I sent ’em right up.  Well, there was some delay, for two of my boys were out to supper, and I waited for one to get back.”