s, for apparently the mere idea was
amusing, and I had a flashing glimpse of what it must be to see Florence
Lloyd smile! Well it should not be my fault, or due to my lack of
exertion, if the day did not come when she should smile again, and
I promised myself I should be there to see it. But stifling these
thoughts, I brought my mind back to duty. Drawing from my pocket the
photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford's desk, I showed it to her.

"In Uncle's desk!" she exclaimed. "This does surprise me. I had no idea
Uncle Joseph had received a photograph from a lady with an affectionate
message, too. Are you quite sure it belonged to him?"

"I only know that we found it in his desk, hidden beneath some old
letters and papers."

"Were the letters from this lady?"

"No; in no case could we find a signature that agreed with these
initials."

"Here's your chance, Mr. Burroughs," and again Florence Lloyd's dimples
nearly escaped the bondage which held them during these sad days. "If
you're a detective, you ought to gather at once from this photograph and
signature all the details about this lady; who she is, and what she had
to do with Uncle Joseph."

"I wish I could do so," I replied, "but you see, I'm not that kind of
detective. I have a friend, Mr. Stone, who could do it, and would tell
you, as you say, everything about that lady, merely by looking at her
picture."

As a case in point, I told her then and there the story of Fleming
Stone's wonderful deductions from the pair of muddy shoes we had seen in
a hotel one morning.

"But you never proved that it was true?" she asked, her dark eyes
sparkling with interest, and her face alight with animation.

"No, but it wasn't necessary. Stone's deductions are always right, and
if not, you know it is the exception that proves the rule."

"Well, let us try to deduce a little from this picture. I don't believe
for a moment, that Uncle Joseph had a romantic attachment for any lady,
though these words on the back of the picture do seem to indicate it."

"Well, go on," said I, so carried away by the fascination of the girl,
when she had for a moment seemed to forget her troubles, that I wanted
to prolong the moment. "Go ahead, and see what inferences you can draw
from the photograph."

"I think she is about fifty years old," Florence began, "or perhaps
fifty-five. What do you think?"

"I wouldn't presume to guess a lady's age," I returned, "and beside,
I want you to try yo