“I only know that we found it in his desk, hidden beneath some old letters and papers.”

“Were the letters from this lady?”

“No; in no case could we find a signature that agreed with these initials.”

“Here’s your chance, Mr. Burroughs,” and again Florence Lloyd’s dimples nearly escaped the bondage which held them during these sad days.  “If you’re a detective, you ought to gather at once from this photograph and signature all the details about this lady; who she is, and what she had to do with Uncle Joseph.”

“I wish I could do so,” I replied, “but you see, I’m not that kind of detective.  I have a friend, Mr. Stone, who could do it, and would tell you, as you say, everything about that lady, merely by looking at her picture.”

As a case in point, I told her then and there the story of Fleming Stone’s wonderful deductions from the pair of muddy shoes we had seen in a hotel one morning.

“But you never proved that it was true?” she asked, her dark eyes sparkling with interest, and her face alight with animation.

“No, but it wasn’t necessary.  Stone’s deductions are always right, and if not, you know it is the exception that proves the rule.”

“Well, let us try to deduce a little from this picture.  I don’t believe for a moment, that Uncle Joseph had a romantic attachment for any lady, though these words on the back of the picture do seem to indicate it.”

“Well, go on,” said I, so carried away by the fascination of the girl, when she had for a moment seemed to forget her troubles, that I wanted to prolong the moment.  “Go ahead, and see what inferences you can draw from the photograph.”

“I think she is about fifty years old,” Florence began, “or perhaps fifty-five.  What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t presume to guess a lady’s age,” I returned, “and beside, I want you to try your powers on this.  You may be better at deductions than I am.  I have already confessed to you my inability in that direction.”

“Well,” she went on, “I think this lady is rather good-looking, and I think she appreciates the fact.”

“The first is evident on the face of it, and the second is a universal truth, so you haven’t really deduced much as yet.”

“No, that’s so,” and she pouted a little.  “But at any rate, I can deduce more about her dress than you can.  The picture was taken, or at least that costume was made, about a year ago, for that is the style that was worn then.”

“Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous!”

She flashed me a glance of understanding and appreciation, but undaunted, went on:  “The gown also was not made by a competent modiste, but was made by a dressmaker in the house, who came in by the day.  The lady is of an economical turn of mind, because the lace yoke of the gown is an old one, and has even been darned to make it presentable to use in the new gown.”

“Now that is deduction,” I said admiringly; “the only trouble is, that it doesn’t do us much good.  Somehow I can’t seem to fancy this good-looking, economical, middle-aged lady, who has her dressmaking done at home, coming here in the middle of the night and killing Mr. Crawford.”