I had to look away from her as I said this, for I could not look on that sweet face and say anything even seemingly harsh or dictatorial.

Her lip quivered.  “I will do my best,” she said tremblingly.  “I will try to make Mr. Hall tell where he was that night.  I will see you again after I have talked with him.”

More collusion!  I said good-by rather curtly, I fear, and went quickly away from that perilous presence.

Truly, a nice detective, I!  Bowled over by a fair face, I was unable to think clearly, to judge logically, or to work honestly!

Well, I would go home and think it out by myself.  Away from her influence I surely would regain my cool-headed methods of thought.

When I reached the inn, I found Mr. Lemuel Porter there waiting for me.

“How do you do, Mr. Burroughs?” he said pleasantly.  “Have you time for a half-hour’s chat?”

It was just what I wanted.  A talk with this clear-thinking man would help me, indeed, and I determined to get his opinions, even as I was ready to give him mine.

“Well, what do you think about it all?” I inquired, after we were comfortably settled at a small table on the shaded veranda, which was a popular gathering-place at this hour.  But in our corner we were in no danger from listening ears, and I awaited his reply with interest.

His eyes smiled a little, as he said

“You know the old story of the man who said he wouldn’t hire a dog and then do his own barking.  Well, though I haven’t ‘hired’ you, I would be quite ready to pay your honorarium if you can ferret out our West Sedgwick mystery.  And so, as you are the detective in charge of the case, I ask you, what do you think about it all?”

But I was pretty thoroughly on my guard now.

“I think,” I began, “that much hinges on the ownership of that gold bag.”

“And you do not think it is Miss Lloyd’s?”

“I do not.”

“It need not incriminate her, if it were hers,” said Mr. Porter, meditatively knocking the ash from said his cigar.  “She might have left it in the office at any time previous to the day of the crime.  Women are always leaving such things about.  I confess it does not seem to me important.”

“Was it on Mr. Crawford’s desk when you were there?” I asked suddenly.

He looked up at me quickly, and again that half-smile came into his eyes.

“Am I to be questioned?” he said.  “Well, I’ve no objections, I’m sure.  No, I do not think it was there when I called on Mr. Crawford that evening.  But I couldn’t swear to this, for I am not an observant man, and the thing might have lain there in front of me and never caught my eye.  If I had noticed it, of course I should have thought it was Florence’s.”

“But you don’t think so now, do you?”

“No; I can’t say I think so.  And yet I can imagine a girl untruthfully denying ownership under such circumstances.”