f a strange woman with the gold bag had been in the office, that also
would have attracted Louis's attention. Again, and here my heart almost
stopped beating, could he have seen Florence Lloyd in there? But a
second thought put me at ease again. Surely to have seen Florence in
there would have been so usual and natural a sight that it could not
have caused him anxiety. And yet, again, for him to have seen Florence
in her uncle's office, would have proved to him that the story she
told at the inquest was false. I must get out of him the knowledge he
possessed, if I had to resort to a sort of third degree. But I might
manage it by adroit questioning.

"I quite understand, Louis, that you are shielding some person. But let
me tell you that it is useless. It is much wiser for you to tell me all
you know, and then I can go to work intelligently to find the man who
murdered Mr. Crawford. You want me to find him, do you not?"

Louis seemed to have found his voice again. "Yes, sir, of course he must
be found. Of course I want him found,--the miscreant, the villain! but,
Mr. Burroughs, sir, what I have see in the office makes nothing to your
search. I simply see Mr. Crawford alive and well. And I pass by. That
fool girl Elsa, she tell you that I pass by, so I may say so. But I see
nothing in the office to alarm me, and if I drop my transfer there, it
is but because I think of him as no consequence, and I let him go."

"Louis," and I looked him straight in the eye, "all that sounds
straightforward and true. But, if you saw nothing in the office to
surprise or alarm you, why did you at first deny having passed by the
office at all?"

The man had no answer for this. He was not ingenious in inventing
falsehood, and he stood looking helpless and despairing. I perceived I
should have to go on with my questioning.

"Was it a man or a woman you saw in there with Mr. Crawford?"

"I see nobody, sir, nobody but my master."

That wouldn't do, then. As long as I asked him direct questions he could
answer falsely. I must trip him up in some roundabout way.

"Yes," I said pleasantly, "I understand that. And what was Mr. Crawford
doing?"

"He sat at his desk;" and Louis spoke slowly, and picked his words with
care.

"Was he writing?"

"No; that is, yes, sir, he was writing."

I now knew he was not writing, for the truth had slipped out before the
man could frame up his lie. I believed I was going to learn something at
last, if I