iss Lloyd. She is haughty
and wilful. And as I told you, nobody has mentioned her yet in this
connection. But I am speaking to you alone, and I have no reason to
mince matters. And you know Florence Lloyd is not of the Crawford
stock. The Crawfords are a fine old family, and not one of them could
be capable of crime. But Miss Lloyd is on the other side of the house,
a niece of Mrs. Crawford; and I've heard that the Lloyd stock is not all
that could be desired. There is a great deal in heredity, and she may
not be responsible..."

I paid little attention to Parmalee's talk, which was thrown at me in
jerky, desultory sentences, and interested me not at all. I went on with
my work of investigation, and though I did not get down on my knees and
examine every square inch of the carpet with a lens, yet I thoroughly
examined all of the contents of the room. I regret to say, however, that
I found nothing that seemed to be a clue to the murderer.

Stepping out on the veranda, I looked for footprints. The "light snow"
usually so helpful to a detective had not fallen, as it was April, and
rather warm for the season. But I found many heel marks, apparently of
men's boots; yet they were not necessarily of very recent date, and I
don't think much of foot-print clues, anyhow.

Then I examined the carpet, or, rather, the several rugs which
ornamented the beautiful polished floor.

I found nothing but two petals of a pale yellow rose. They were
crumpled, but not dry or withered, and could not have been long detached
from the blossom on which they grew.

Parmalee chanced to have his back toward me as I spied them, and
I picked them up and put them away in my pocket-book without his
knowledge. If the stolid inspector saw me, he made no sign. Indeed,
I think he would have said nothing if I had carried off the big desk
itself. I looked round the room for a bouquet or vase of flowers from
which the petals might have fallen, but none was there.

This far I had progressed when I heard steps in the hall, and a moment
later the coroner ushered the six gentlemen of his jury into the room.

III. THE CORONER'S JURY

It was just as the men came in at the door, that I chanced to notice a
newspaper that lay on a small table. I picked it up with an apparent air
of carelessness, and, watching my chance, unobserved by Parmalee, I put
the paper away in a drawer, which I locked.

The six men, whom Coroner Monroe named over to me, by way o