She came down to the drawing room, and greeted me rather more cordially than I had dared to hope.  I had a feeling that both ladies resented my presence there, for so many women have a prejudice against detectives.

But though nervous and agitated, Mrs. Pierce spoke to me kindly.

“Did you want to see me for anything in particular, Mr. Burroughs?” she asked.

“Yes, I do, Mrs. Pierce,” I replied; “I may as well tell you frankly that I want to find out all I can about those yellow roses.”

“Oh, those roses!  Shall I never hear the last of them?  I assure you, Mr. Burroughs, they’re of no importance whatever.”

“That is not for you to decide,” I said quietly, and I began to see that perhaps a dictatorial attitude might be the best way to manage this lady.  “Are the rest of those flowers still in Miss Lloyd’s room?  If so I wish to see them.”

“I don’t know whether they are or not; but I will find out, and if so I’ll bring them down.”

“No,” I said, “I will go with you to see them.”

“But Florence may be in her room.”

“So much the better.  She can tell me anything I wish to know.”

“Oh, please don’t interview her!  I’m sure she wouldn’t want to talk with you.”

“Very well, then ask her to vacate the room, and I will go there with you now.”

Mrs. Pierce went away, and I began to wonder if I had gone too far or had overstepped my authority.  But it was surely my duty to learn all I could about Florence Lloyd, and what so promising of suggestions as her own room?

Mrs. Pierce returned in a few moments, and affably enough she asked me to accompany her to Miss Lloyd’s room.

I did so, and after entering devoted my whole attention to the bunch of yellow roses, which in a glass vase stood on the window seat.  Although somewhat wilted, they were still beautiful, and without the slightest doubt were the kind of rose from which the two tell-tale petals had fallen.

Acting upon a sudden thought, I counted them.  There were nine, each one seemingly with its full complement of petals, though of this I could not be perfectly certain.

“Now, Mrs.—­Pierce,” I said, turning to her with an air of authority which was becoming difficult to maintain, “where are the roses which Miss Lloyd admits having pinned to her gown?”

“Mercy!  I don’t know,” exclaimed Mrs. Pierce, looking bewildered.  “I suppose she threw them away.”

“I suppose she did,” I returned; “would she not be likely to throw them in the waste basket?”

“She might,” returned Mrs. Pierce, turning toward an ornate affair of wicker-work and pink ribbons.

Sure enough, in the basket, among a few scraps of paper, were two exceedingly withered yellow roses.  I picked them out and examined them, but in their present state it was impossible to tell whether they had lost any petals or not, so I threw them back in the basket.