ods of thought.

When I reached the inn, I found Mr. Lemuel Porter there waiting for me.

"How do you do, Mr. Burroughs?" he said pleasantly. "Have you time for a
half-hour's chat?"

It was just what I wanted. A talk with this clear-thinking man would
help me, indeed, and I determined to get his opinions, even as I was
ready to give him mine.

"Well, what do you think about it all?" I inquired, after we were
comfortably settled at a small table on the shaded veranda, which was
a popular gathering-place at this hour. But in our corner we were in no
danger from listening ears, and I awaited his reply with interest.

His eyes smiled a little, as he said,

"You know the old story of the man who said he wouldn't hire a dog and
then do his own barking. Well, though I haven't 'hired' you, I would
be quite ready to pay your honorarium if you can ferret out our West
Sedgwick mystery. And so, as you are the detective in charge of the
case, I ask you, what do you think about it all?"

But I was pretty thoroughly on my guard now.

"I think," I began, "that much hinges on the ownership of that gold
bag."

"And you do not think it is Miss Lloyd's?"

"I do not."

"It need not incriminate her, if it were hers," said Mr. Porter,
meditatively knocking the ash from said his cigar. "She might have left
it in the office at any time previous to the day of the crime. Women
are always leaving such things about. I confess it does not seem to me
important."

"Was it on Mr. Crawford's desk when you were there?" I asked suddenly.

He looked up at me quickly, and again that half-smile came into his
eyes.

"Am I to be questioned?" he said. "Well, I've no objections, I'm sure.
No, I do not think it was there when I called on Mr. Crawford that
evening. But I couldn't swear to this, for I am not an observant man,
and the thing might have lain there in front of me and never caught
my eye. If I had noticed it, of course I should have thought it was
Florence's."

"But you don't think so now, do you?"

"No; I can't say I think so. And yet I can imagine a girl untruthfully
denying ownership under such circumstances."

I started at this. For hadn't Miss Lloyd untruthfully denied coming
down-stairs to talk to her uncle?

"But," went on Mr. Porter, "if the bag is not Florence's, then I can
think of but one explanation for its presence there."

"A lady visitor, late at night," I said slowly.

"Yes," was the grave reply; "and though su