She came willingly enough, and though she seemed timid, she was not embarrassed or afraid.

“I’m in authority here,” I said, “and I’m going to ask you some questions, which you must answer truthfully.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, without any show of interest.

“Have you been with Miss Lloyd long?”

“Yes, sir; about four years, sir.”

“Is she a kind mistress?”

“Indeed she is, sir.  She is the loveliest lady I ever worked for.  I’d do anything for Miss Lloyd, that I would.”

“Well, perhaps you can best serve her by telling all you know about the events of Tuesday night.”

“But I don’t know anything, sir,” and Elsa’s eyes opened wide in absolutely unfeigned wonderment.

“Nothing about the actual murder; no, of course not.  But I just want you to tell me a few things about some minor matters.  Did you take the yellow flowers from the box that was sent to Miss Lloyd?”

“Yes, sir; I always untie her parcels.  And as she was at dinner, I arranged the flowers in a vase of water.”

“How many flowers were there?”

For some reason this simple query disturbed the girl greatly.  She flushed scarlet, and then she turned pale.  She twisted the corner of her apron in her nervous fingers, and then said, only half audibly, “I don’t know, sir.”

“Oh, yes, you do, Elsa,” I said in kindly tones, being anxious not to frighten her; “tell me how many there were.  Were there not a dozen?”

“I don’t know, sir; truly I don’t.  I didn’t count them at all.”

It was impossible to disbelieve her; she was plainly telling the truth.  And, too, why should she count the roses?  The natural thing would be not to count them, but merely to put them in the vase as she had said.  And yet, there was something about those flowers that Elsa knew and wouldn’t tell.  Could it be that I was on the track of that missing twelfth rose?  I knew, though perhaps Elsa did not, how many roses the florist had sent in that box.  And unless Gregory Hall had abstracted one at the time of his purchase, the twelfth rose had been taken by some one else after the flowers reached the Crawford House.  Could it have been Elsa, and was her perturbation only because of a guilty conscience over a petty theft of a flower?  But I realized I must question her adroitly if I would find out these things.

“Is Miss Lloyd fond of flowers?” I asked, casually.

“Oh, yes, sir, she always has some by her.”

“And do you love flowers too, Elsa?”

“Yes, sir.”  But the quietly spoken answer, accompanied by a natural and straightforward look promised little for my new theory.

“Does Miss Lloyd sometimes give you some of her flowers?”

“Oh, yes, sir, quite often.”

“That is, if she’s there when they arrive.  But if she isn’t there, and you open the box yourself, she wouldn’t mind if you took one or two blossoms, would she?”