“No, I can’t, either,” said Florence gravely; “but then, I can’t imagine any one else doing that, either.  It seems like a horrible dream, and I can’t realize that it really happened to Uncle Joseph.”

“But it did happen, and we must find the guilty person.  I think with you, that this photograph is of little value as a clue, and yet it may turn out to be.  And yet I do think the gold bag is a clue.  You are quite sure it isn’t yours?”

Perhaps it was a mean way to put the question, but the look of indignation she gave me helped to convince me that the bag was not hers.

“I told you it was not,” she said, “but,” and her eyes fell, “since I have confessed to one falsehood, of course you cannot believe my statement.”

“But I do believe it,” I said, and I did, thoroughly.

“At any rate, it is a sort of proof,” she said, smiling sadly, “that any one who knows anything about women’s fashions can tell you that it is not customary to carry a bag of that sort when one is in the house and in evening dress.  Or rather, in a negligee costume, for I had taken off my evening gown and wore a tea-gown.  I should not think of going anywhere in a tea-gown, and carrying a gold bag.”

The girl had seemingly grown almost lighthearted.  Her speech was punctuated by little smiles, and her half sad, half gay demeanor bewitched me.  I felt sure that what little suggestion of lightheartedness had come into her mood had come because she had at last confessed the falsehood she had told, and her freed conscience gave her a little buoyancy of heart.

But there were still important questions to be asked, so, though unwillingly, I returned to the old subject.

“Did you see your uncle’s will while you were there?”

“No; he talked about it, but did not show it to me.”

“Did he talk about it as if it were still in his possession?”

“Why, yes; I think so.  That is, he said he would make a new one unless I gave up Gregory.  That implied that the old one was still in existence, though he didn’t exactly say so.”

“Miss Lloyd, this is important evidence.  I must tell you that I shall be obliged to repeat much of it to the district attorney.  It seems to me to prove that your uncle did not himself destroy the will.”

“He might have done so after I left him.”

“I can’t think it, for it is not in scraps in the waste-basket, nor are there any paper-ashes in the grate.”

“Well, then,” she rejoined, “if he didn’t destroy it, it may yet be found.”

“You wish that very much?” I said, almost involuntarily.

“Oh, I do!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands.  “Not so much for myself as—­”

She paused, and I finished the sentence for her “For Mr. Hall.”

She looked angry again, but said nothing.

“Well, Miss Lloyd,” I said, as I rose to go, “I am going to do everything in my power in your behalf and in behalf of Mr. Hall.  But I tell you frankly, unless you will both tell me the truth, and the whole truth, you will only defeat my efforts, and work your own undoing.”