“And why have you confessed it to me now?”

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“I told you why,” she said:  “so you would know where the rose leaves came from, and not suspect Gregory.”

“Do you suspect him?”

“N-no, of course not.  But others might.”

It is impossible to describe the dismay that smote my heart at the hesitation of this answer.  It was more than hesitation.  It was a conflict of unspoken impulses, and the words, when they were uttered, seemed to carry hidden meanings, and to my mind they carried the worst and most sinister meaning conceivable.

To me, it seemed to point unmistakably to collusion between Florence Lloyd, whom I already loved, and Gregory Hall, whom I already distrusted and disliked.  Guilty collusion between these two would explain everything.  Theirs the motive, theirs the opportunity, theirs the denials and false witnessing.  The gold bag, as yet, remained unexplained, but the yellow rose petals and the late newspaper could be accounted for if Hall had come out on the midnight train, and Florence had helped him to enter and leave the house unseen.

Bah! it was impossible.  And, any way, the gold bag remained as proof against this horrid theory.  I would pin my faith to the gold bag, and through its presence in the room, I would defy suspicions of the two people I had resolved to protect.

“What do you think about the gold bag?” I asked.

“I don’t know what to think.  I hate to accuse Uncle Joseph of such a thing, but it seems as if some woman friend of his must have come to the office after I left.  The long French windows were open—­it was a warm night, you know—­and any one could have come and gone unseen.”

“The bag wasn’t there when you were there?”

“I’m sure it was not!  That is, not in sight, and Uncle Joseph was not the sort of man to have such a thing put away in his desk as a souvenir, or for any other reason.”

“Forgive the insinuation, but of course you could not know positively that Mr. Crawford would not have a feminine souvenir in his desk.”

She looked up surprised.  “Of course I could not be positive,” she said, “but it is difficult to imagine anything sentimental connected with Uncle Joseph.”

She almost smiled as she said this, for apparently the mere idea was amusing, and I had a flashing glimpse of what it must be to see Florence Lloyd smile!  Well it should not be my fault, or due to my lack of exertion, if the day did not come when she should smile again, and I promised myself I should be there to see it.  But stifling these thoughts, I brought my mind back to duty.  Drawing from my pocket the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford’s desk, I showed it to her.

“In Uncle’s desk!” she exclaimed.  “This does surprise me.  I had no idea Uncle Joseph had received a photograph from a lady with an affectionate message, too.  Are you quite sure it belonged to him?”