as
I didn't think it could do any good to tell of my little visit to him,
I just said I didn't come down. Oh, I know it was a lie--I know it was
wicked--but I was so frightened, and it was such an easy way out of it,
just to deny it."

"And why have you confessed it to me now?"

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"I told you why," she said: "so you would know where the rose leaves
came from, and not suspect Gregory."

"Do you suspect him?"

"N-no, of course not. But others might."

It is impossible to describe the dismay that smote my heart at the
hesitation of this answer. It was more than hesitation. It was a
conflict of unspoken impulses, and the words, when they were uttered,
seemed to carry hidden meanings, and to my mind they carried the worst
and most sinister meaning conceivable.

To me, it seemed to point unmistakably to collusion between Florence
Lloyd, whom I already loved, and Gregory Hall, whom I already distrusted
and disliked. Guilty collusion between these two would explain
everything. Theirs the motive, theirs the opportunity, theirs
the denials and false witnessing. The gold bag, as yet, remained
unexplained, but the yellow rose petals and the late newspaper could be
accounted for if Hall had come out on the midnight train, and Florence
had helped him to enter and leave the house unseen.

Bah! it was impossible. And, any way, the gold bag remained as proof
against this horrid theory. I would pin my faith to the gold bag, and
through its presence in the room, I would defy suspicions of the two
people I had resolved to protect.

"What do you think about the gold bag?" I asked.

"I don't know what to think. I hate to accuse Uncle Joseph of such a
thing, but it seems as if some woman friend of his must have come to the
office after I left. The long French windows were open--it was a warm
night, you know--and any one could have come and gone unseen."

"The bag wasn't there when you were there?"

"I'm sure it was not! That is, not in sight, and Uncle Joseph was not
the sort of man to have such a thing put away in his desk as a souvenir,
or for any other reason."

"Forgive the insinuation, but of course you could not know positively
that Mr. Crawford would not have a feminine souvenir in his desk."

She looked up surprised. "Of course I could not be positive," she said,
"but it is difficult to imagine anything sentimental connected with
Uncle Joseph."

She almost smiled as she said thi