I started at this.  For hadn’t Miss Lloyd untruthfully denied coming down-stairs to talk to her uncle?

“But,” went on Mr. Porter, “if the bag is not Florence’s, then I can think of but one explanation for its presence there.”

“A lady visitor, late at night,” I said slowly.

“Yes,” was the grave reply; “and though such an occurrence might have been an innocent one, yet, taken in connection with the crime, there is a dreadful possibility.”

“Granting this,” I suggested, “we ought to be able to trace the owner of the bag.”

“Not likely.  If the owner of that bag—­a woman, presumably—­is the slayer of Joseph Crawford, and made her escape from the scene undiscovered, she is not likely to stay around where she may be found.  And the bag itself, and its contents, are hopelessly unindividual.”

“They are that,” I agreed.  “Not a thing in it that mightn’t be in any woman’s bag in this country.  To me, that cleaner’s advertisement means nothing in connection with Miss Lloyd.”

“I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Burroughs.  I confess I have had a half-fear that your suspicions had a trend in Florence’s direction, and I assure you, sir, that girl is incapable of the slightest impulse toward crime.”

“I’m sure of that,” I said heartily, my blood bounding in my veins at an opportunity to speak in defense of the woman I loved.  “But how if her impulses were directed, or even coerced, by another?”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing.  But sometimes the best and sweetest women will act against their own good impulses for those they love.”

“I cannot pretend to misunderstand you,” said Mr. Porter.  “But you are wrong.  If the one you have in mind—­I will say no name —­was in any way guiltily implicated, it was without the knowledge or connivance of Florence Lloyd.  But, man, the idea is absurd.  The individual in question has a perfect alibi.”

“He refuses to give it.”

“Refuses the details, perhaps.  And he has a right to, since they concern no one but himself.  No, my friend, you know the French rule; well, follow that, and search for the lady with the gold-mesh bag.”

“The lady without it, at present,” I said, with an apologetic smile for my rather grim jest.

“Yes; and that’s the difficulty.  As she hasn’t the bag, we can’t discover her.  So as a clue it is worthless.”

“It seems to be,” I agreed.

I thought best not to tell Mr. Porter of the card I had found in the bag, for I hoped soon to hear from headquarters concerning the lady whose name it bore.  But I told him about the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford’s desk, and showed it to him.  He did not recognize it as being a portrait of any one he had ever seen.  Nor did he take it very seriously as a clue.

“I’m quite sure,” he said, “that Joseph Crawford has not been interested in any woman since the death of his wife.  He has always seemed devoted to her memory, and as one of his nearest friends, I think I would have known if he had formed any other attachment.  Of course, in a matter like this, a man may well have a secret from his nearest friends, but I cannot think this mild and gentle-looking lady is at all concerned in the tragedy.”