though her full lower lip
quivered it was with anger now, not fear.

As I watched her, I wondered how I could have thought her more beautiful
when pale. Surely with this glowing color she was at her glorious best.

"Then when did you drop the two rose petals there?" I went on, calmly
enough, though my own heart was beating fast.

"I did not drop them. They were left there by some intruder."

"But, Miss Lloyd," and I observed her closely, "the petals were from a
rose such as those Mr. Hall sent you that evening. The florist assures
me there were no more such blossoms in West Sedgwick at that time. The
fallen petals, then, were from one of your own roses, or--"

"Or?" asked Miss Lloyd, her hands pressed against the laces at her
throbbing bosom. "Or?"

"Or," I went on, "from a rose worn by some one who had come out from New
York on a late train."

For the moment I chose to ignore Louis's rose for I wanted to learn
anything Miss Lloyd could tell me. And, too, the yellow petals might
have fallen from a flower in Hall's coat after all. I thought it
possible by suggesting this idea, to surprise from her some hint as to
whether she had any suspicion of him.

She gave a gasp, and, leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes, as
if spent with a useless struggle.

"Wait a moment," she said, putting out her hand with an imploring
gesture. "Wait a moment. Let me think. I will tell you all, but--wait--"

With her eyes still closed, she lay back against the satin chair
cushion, and I gazed at her, fascinated.

I knew it! Then and there the knowledge came to me! Not her guilt, not
her innocence. The crime seemed far away then, but I knew like a flash
not only that I loved this girl, this Florence Lloyd, but that I should
never love any one else. It mattered not that she was betrothed to
another man; the love that had suddenly sprung to life in my heart was
such pure devotion that it asked no return. Guilty or innocent, I loved
her. Guilty or innocent, I would clear her; and if the desire of her
heart were toward another, she should ever know or suspect my adoration
for her.

I gazed at her lovely face, knowing that when her eyes opened I
must discreetly turn my glance aside, but blessing every instant of
opportunity thus given me.

Her countenance, though troubled and drawn with anxiety, was so pure
and sweet that I felt sure of her innocence. But it should be my work to
prove that to the world.

Suddenly her eyes