at best, and specially so this
year."

"And you sent Miss Lloyd the whole dozen?"

"Yes, sir; twelve. I like to put in an extra one or two when I can, but
that time I couldn't. There wasn't another rose like them short of New
York City."

I thanked the florist, and, guessing that he was not above it, I gave
him a more material token of my gratitude for his information, and then
walked slowly back to my room at the inn.

Since there were no other roses of that sort in West Sedgwick that
evening, it seemed to me as if Florence Lloyd must have gone down to her
uncle's office after having pinned the blossom on her bodice. The only
other possibility was that some intruder had entered by way of the
French window wearing or carrying a similar flower, and that this
intruder had come from New York, or at least from some place other than
West Sedgwick. It was too absurd. Murderers don't go about decked with
flowers, and yet at midnight a man in evening dress was not impossible,
and evening dress might easily imply a boutonniere.

Well, this well-dressed man I had conjured up in my mind must have come
from out of town, or else whence the flower, after all?

And then I bethought myself of that late newspaper. An extra, printed
probably as late as eleven o'clock at night, must have been brought
out to West Sedgwick by a traveller on some late train. Why not Gregory
Hall, himself? I let my imagination run riot for a minute. Mr. Hall
refused to say where he was on the night of the murder. Why not assume
that he had come out from New York, in evening dress, at or about
midnight? This would account for the newspaper and the yellow rose
petals, for, if he bought a boutonniere in the city, how probable he
would select the same flower he had just sent his fiancee.

I rather fancied the idea of Gregory Hall as the criminal. He had the
same motive as Miss Lloyd. He knew of her uncle's objection to their
union, and his threat of disinheritance. How easy for him to come out
late from New York, on a night when he was not expected, and remove
forever the obstacle to his future happiness!

I drew myself up with a start. This was not detective work. This was
mere idle speculation. I must shake it off, and set about collecting
some real evidence.

But the thought still clung to me; mere speculation it might be, but it
was founded on the same facts that already threw suspicion on Florence
Lloyd. With the exception of the gold bag--and th