Chapter 12

So I told him that I was going to New York on a matter in connection with the case, but that I preferred to go alone, but I would tell him the entire result of my mission as soon as I returned. I think he was a little disappointed, but he was a good-natured chap, and bade me a cheerful goodby, saying he would meet me on my return.

I went to New York and went straight to the Albion Hotel.

Learning at the desk that the lady was really there, I sent my card up to her with a request for an immediate audience, and very soon I was summoned to her apartment.

She greeted me with that air of frigid reserve typical of an English woman. Though not unattractive to look at, she possessed the high cheekbones and prominent teeth which are almost universal in the women of her nation. She was perhaps between thirty and forty years old, and had the air of a grande dame.

“Mr. Burroughs?” she said, looking through her lorgnon at my card, which she held in her hand.

“Yes,” I assented, and judging from her appearance that she was a woman of a decided and straightforward nature I came at once to the point.

“I'm a detective, madam,” I began, and the remark startled her out of her calm.

“A detective!” she cried out, with much the same tone as if I had said a rattlesnake.

“Do not be alarmed, I merely state my profession to explain my errand.”

“Not be alarmed! when a detective comes to see me! How can I help it? Why, I've never had such an experience before. It is shocking! I've met many queer people in the States, but not a detective! Reporters are bad enough!”

“Don't let it disturb you so, Mrs. Purvis. I assure you there is nothing to trouble you in the fact of my presence here, unless it is trouble of your own making.”

“Trouble of my own making!” she almost shrieked. “Tell me at once what you mean, or I shall ring the bell and have you dismissed.”

Her fear and excitement made me think that perhaps I was on the track of new developments, and lest she should carry out her threat of ringing the bell, I plunged at once into the subject.

“Mrs. Purvis, have you lost a gold-mesh bag?” I said bluntly.

“No, I haven't,” she snapped, “and if I had, I should take means to recover it, and not wait for a detective to come and ask me about it.”

I was terribly disappointed. To be sure she might be telling a falsehood about the bag, but I didn't think so. She was angry, annoyed, and a little frightened at my intrusion, but she was not at all embarrassed at my question.

“Are you quite sure you have not lost a gold-link bag?” I insisted, as if in idiotic endeavor to persuade her to have done so.

“Of course I'm sure,” she replied, half laughing now; “I suppose I should know it if I had done so.”

“It's a rather valuable bag,” I went on, “with a gold frame-work and gold chain.”

“Well, if it's worth a whole fortune, it isn't my bag,” she declared; “for I never owned such a one.”

“Well,” I said, in desperation, “your visiting card is in it.”

“My visiting card!” she said, with an expression of blank wonderment. “Well, even if that is true, it doesn't make it my bag. I frequently give my cards to other people.”

This seemed to promise light at last. Somehow I couldn't doubt her assertion that it was not her bag, and yet the thought suddenly occurred to me if she were clever enough to be implicated in the Crawford tragedy, and if she had left her bag there, she would be expecting this inquiry, and would probably be clever enough to have a story prepared.

“Mrs. Purvis, since you say it is not your bag, I'm going to ask you, in the interests of justice, to help me all you can.”

“I'm quite willing to do so, sir. What is it you wish to know?”

“A crime has been committed in a small town in New Jersey. A gold-link bag was afterward discovered at the scene of the crime, and though none of its other contents betokened its owner, a visiting card with your name on it was in the bag.”

Becoming interested in the story, Mrs. Purvis seemed to get over her fright, and was exceedingly sensible for a woman.

“It certainly is not my bag, Mr. Burroughs, and if my card is in it, I can only say that I must have given that card to the lady who owns the bag.”

This seemed distinctly plausible, and also promised further information.

“Do you remember giving your card to any lady with such a bag?”

Mrs. Purvis smiled. “So many of your American women carry those bags,” she said; “they seem to be almost universal this year. I have probably given my card to a score of ladies, who immediately put it into just such a bag.”

“Could you tell me who they are?”

“No, indeed;” and Mrs. Purvis almost laughed outright, at what was doubtless a foolish question.

“But can't you help me in any way?” I pleaded.

“I don't really see how I can,” she replied. “You see I have so many friends in New York, and they make little parties for me, or afternoon teas. Then I meet a great many American ladies, and we often exchange cards. But we do it so often that of course I can't remember every particular instance. Have you the card you speak of?”

I thanked my stars that I had been thoughtful enough to obtain the card before leaving West Sedgwick, and taking it from my pocket-book, I gave it to her.

“Oh, that one!” she said; “perhaps I can help you a little, Mr. Burroughs. That is an old-fashioned card, one of a few left over from an old lot. I have been using them only lately, because my others gave out. I have really gone much more into society in New York than I had anticipated, and my cards seemed fairly to melt away. I ordered some new ones here, but before they were sent to me I was obliged to use a few of these old-fashioned ones. I don't know that this would help you, but I think I can tell pretty nearly to whom I gave those cards.”

It seemed a precarious sort of a chance, but as I talked with Mrs. Purvis, I felt more and more positive that she herself was not implicated in the Crawford case. However, it was just as well to make certain. She had gone to her writing-desk, and seemed to be looking over a diary or engagement book.

“Mrs. Purvis,” I said, “will you tell me where you were on Tuesday evening of last week?”

“Certainly;” and she turned back the leaves of the book. “I went to a theatre party with my friends, the Hepworths; and afterward, we went to a little supper at a restaurant. I returned here about midnight. Must I prove this?” she added, smiling; “for I can probably do so, by the hotel clerk and by my maid. And, of course, by my friends who gave the party.”

“No, you needn't prove it,” I answered, certain now that she knew nothing of the Crawford matter; “but I hope you can give me more information about your card.”

“Why, I remember that very night, I gave my cards to two ladies who were at the theatre with us; and I remember now that at that time I had only these old-fashioned cards. I was rather ashamed of them, for Americans are punctilious in such matters; and now that I think of it, one of the ladies was carrying a gold-mesh bag.”

“Who was she?” I asked, hardly daring to hope that I had really struck the trail.

“I can't seem to remember her name, but perhaps it will come to me. It was rather an English type of name, something like Coningsby.”

“Where did she live?”

“I haven't the slightest idea. You see I meet these ladies so casually, and I really never expect to see any of them again. Our exchange of cards is a mere bit of formal courtesy. No, I can't remember her name, or where she was from. But I don't think she was a New Yorker.”

Truly it was hard to come so near getting what might be vital information, and yet have it beyond my grasp! It was quite evident that Mrs. Purvis was honestly trying to remember the lady's name, but could not do so.

And then I had what seemed to me an inspiration. “Didn't she give you her card?” I asked.

A light broke over Mrs. Purvis's face. “Why, yes, of course she did! And I'm sure I can find it.”

She turned to a card-tray, and rapidly running over the bits of pasteboard, she selected three or four.

“Here they are,” she exclaimed, “all here together. I mean all the cards that were given me on that particular evening. And here is the name I couldn't think of. It is Mrs. Cunningham. I remember distinctly that she carried a gold bag, and no one else in the party did, for we were admiring it. And here is her address on the card; Marathon Park, New Jersey.”

I almost fainted, myself, with the suddenness of the discovery. Had I really found the name and address of the owner of the gold bag? Of course there might be a slip yet, but the evidence seemed clear that Mrs. Cunningham, of Marathon Park, owned the bag that had been the subject of so much speculation.

I had no idea where Marathon Park might be, but that was a mere detail. I thanked Mrs. Purvis sincerely for the help she had given me, and I was glad I had not told her that her casual acquaintance was perhaps implicated in a murder mystery.

I made my adieux and returned at once to West Sedgwick.

As he had promised, Parmalee met me at the station, and I told him the whole story, for I thought him entitled to the information at once.

“Why, man alive!” he exclaimed, “Marathon Park is the very next station to West Sedgwick!”

“So it is!” I said; “I knew I had a hazy idea of having seen the name, but the trains I have taken to and from New York have been expresses, which didn't stop there, and I paid no attention to it.”

“It's a small park,” went on Parmalee, “of swagger residences; very exclusive and reserved, you know. You've certainly unearthed startling news, but I can't help thinking that it will be a wild goose chase that leads us to look for our criminal in Marathon Park!”

“What do you think we'd better do?” said I. “Go to see Mrs. Cunningham?”

“No, I wouldn't do that,” said Parmalee, who had a sort of plebeian hesitancy at the thought of intruding upon aristocratic strangers. “Suppose you write her a letter and just ask her if she has lost her bag.”

“All right,” I conceded, for truth to tell, I greatly preferred to stay in West Sedgwick than to go out of it, for I had always the undefined hope of seeing Florence Lloyd.

So I wrote a letter, not exactly curt, but strictly formal, asking Mrs. Cunningham if she had recently lost a gold-mesh bag, containing her gloves and handkerchief.

Then Parmalee and I agreed to keep the matter a secret until we should get a reply to this, for we concluded there was no use in stirring up public curiosity on the matter until we knew ourselves that we were on the right trail.

XVII. THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG

The next day I received a letter addressed in modish, angular penmanship, which, before I opened it, I felt sure had come from Mrs. Cunningham. It ran as follows,

Mr. HERBERT Burroughs,

Dear Sir: Yes, I have lost a gold bag, and I have known all along that it is the one the newspapers are talking so much about in connection with the Crawford case. I know, too, that you are the detective on the case, and though I can't imagine how you did it, I think it was awfully clever of you to trace the bag to me, for I'm sure my name wasn't in it anywhere. As I say, the bag is mine, but I didn't kill Mr. Crawford, and I don't know who did. I would go straight to you, and tell you all about it, but I am afraid of detectives and lawyers, and I don't want to be mixed up in the affair anyway. But I am going to see Miss Lloyd, and explain it all to her, and then she can tell you. Please don't let my name get in the papers, as I hate that sort of prominence.

Very truly yours,

ELIZABETH CUNNINGHAM.

I smiled a little over the femininity of the letter, but as Parmalee had prophesied, Marathon Park was evidently no place to look for our criminal.

The foolish little woman who had written that letter, had no guilty secret on her conscience, of that I was sure.

I telephoned for Parmalee and showed him the letter.

“It doesn't help us in one way,” he said, “for of course, Mrs. Cunningham is not implicated. But the bag is still a clue, for how did it get into Mr. Crawford's office?”

“We must find out who Mr. Cunningham is,” I suggested.

“He's not the criminal, either. If he had left his wife's bag there, he never would have let her send this letter.”

“Perhaps he didn't know she wrote it.”

“Oh, perhaps lots of things! But I am anxious to learn what Mrs. Cunningham tells Miss Lloyd.”

“Let us go over to the Crawford house, and tell Miss Lloyd about it.”

“Not this morning; I've another engagement. And besides, the little lady won't get around so soon.”

“Why a little lady?” I asked, smiling.

“Oh, the whole tone of the letter seems to imply a little yellow-haired butterfly of a woman.”

“Just the reverse of Florence Lloyd,” I said musingly.

“Yes; no one could imagine Miss Lloyd writing a letter like that. There's lots of personality in a woman's letter. Much more than in a man's.”

Parmalee went away, and prompted by his suggestions, I studied the letter I had just received. It was merely an idle fancy, for if Mrs. Cunningham was going to tell Miss Lloyd her story, it made little difference to me what might be her stature or the color of her hair. But, probably because of Parmalee's suggestion, I pictured her to myself as a pretty young woman with that air of half innocence and half ignorance which so well becomes the plump blonde type.

The broad veranda of the Sedgwick Arms was a pleasant place to sit, and I had mused there for some time, when Mr. Carstairs came out to tell me that I was asked for on the telephone. The call proved to be from Florence Lloyd asking me to come to her at once.

Only too glad to obey this summons, I went directly to the Crawford house, wondering if any new evidence had been brought to light.

Lambert opened the door for me, and ushered me into the library, where Florence was receiving a lady caller.

“Mrs. Cunningham,” said Florence, as I entered, “may I present Mr. Burroughs--Mr. Herbert Burroughs. I sent for you,” she added, turning to me, “because Mrs. Cunningham has an important story to tell, and I thought you ought to hear it at once.”

I bowed politely to the stranger, and awaited her disclosures.

Mrs. Cunningham was a pretty, frivolous-looking woman, with appealing blue eyes, and a manner half-childish, half-apologetic.

I smiled involuntarily to see how nearly her appearance coincided with the picture in my mind, and I greeted her almost as if she were a previous acquaintance.

“I know I've done very wrong,” she began, with a nervous little flutter of her pretty hands; “but I'm ready now to 'fess up, as the children say.”

She looked at me, so sure of an answering smile, that I gave it, and said,

“Let us hear your confession, Mrs. Cunningham; I doubt if it's a very dreadful one.”

“Well, you see,” she went on, “that gold bag is mine.”

“Yes,” I said; “how did it get here?”

“I've no idea,” she replied, and I could see that her shallow nature fairly exulted in the sensation she was creating. “I went to New York that night, to the theatre, and I carried my gold bag, and I left it in the train when I got out at the station.”

“West Sedgwick?” I asked.

“No; I live at Marathon Park, the next station to this.”

“Next on the way to New York?”

“Yes. And when I got out of the train--I was with my husband and some other people--we had been to a little theatre party--I missed the bag. But I didn't tell Jack, because I knew he'd scold me for being so careless. I thought I'd get it back from the Lost and Found Department, and then, the very next day, I read in the paper about the--the--awful accident, and it told about a gold bag being found here.”

“You recognized it as yours?”

“Of course; for the paper described everything in it--even to the cleaner's advertisement that I'd just cut out that very day.”

“Why didn't you come and claim it at once?”

“Oh, Mr. Burroughs, you must know why I didn't! Why, I was scared 'most to death to read the accounts of the terrible affair; and to mix in it, myself--ugh! I couldn't dream of anything so horrible.”

It was absurd, but I had a desire to shake the silly little bundle of femininity who told this really important story, with the twitters and simpers of a silly school-girl.

“And you would not have come, if I had not written you?”

She hesitated. “I think I should have come soon, even without your letter.”

“Why, Mrs. Cunningham?”

“Well, I kept it secret as long as I could, but yesterday Jack saw that I had something on my mind. I couldn't fool him any longer.”

“As to your having a mind!” I said to myself, but I made no comment aloud.

“So I told him all about it, and he said I must come at once and tell Miss Lloyd, because, you see, they thought it was her bag all the time.”

“Yes,” I said gravely; “it would have been better if you had come at first, with your story. Have you any one to substantiate it, or any proofs that it is the truth?”

The blue eyes regarded me with an injured expression. Then she brightened again.

“Oh, yes, I can `prove property'; that's what you mean, isn't it? I can tell you which glove finger is ripped, and just how much money is in the bag, and--and here's a handkerchief exactly like the one I carried that night. Jack said if I told you all these things, you'd know it's my bag, and not Miss Lloyd's.”

“And then, there was a card in it.”

“A card? My card?”

“No, not your card; a card with another name on it. Don't you know whose?”

Mrs. Cunningham thought for a moment. Then, “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Purvis gave me her card, and I tucked it in the pocket of the bag. Was that the way you discovered the bag was mine? And how did that make you know it.”

“I'll tell you about that some other time if you wish, Mrs. Cunningham; but just now I want to get at the important part of your story. How did your gold bag get in Mr. Crawford's office?”

“Ah, how did it?” The laughing face was sober now and she seemed appalled at the question. “Jack says some one must have found it in the car-seat where I left it, and he”--she lowered her voice--“he must be the--”

“The murderer,” I supplied calmly. “It does look that way. You have witnesses, I suppose, who saw you in that train?”

“Mercy, yes! Lots of them. The train reaches Marathon Park at 12: 50, and is due here at one o'clock. Ever so many people got out at our station. There were six in our own party, and others besides. And the conductor knows me, and everybody knows Jack. He's Mr. John Le Roy Cunningham.”

It was impossible to doubt all this. Further corroboration it might be well to get, but there was not the slightest question in my mind as to the little lady's truthfulness.

“I thank you, Mrs. Cunningham,” I said, “for coming to us with your story. You may not be able to get your bag to-day, but I assure you it will, be sent to you as soon as a few inquiries can be made. These are merely for the sake of formalities, for, as you say, your fellow townspeople can certify to your presence on the train, and your leaving it at the Marathon Park station.”

“Yes,” she replied; “and”--she handed me a paper--“there's my husband's address, and his lawyer's address, and the addresses of all the people that were in our party that night. Jack said you might like to have the list. He would have come himself to-day, only he's fearfully busy. And I said I didn't mind coming alone, just to see Miss Lloyd. I wouldn't have gone to a jury meeting, though. And I'm in no hurry for the bag. In fact, I don't care much if I never get it. It wasn't the value of the thing that made me come at all, but the fear that my bag might make trouble for Miss Lloyd. Jack said it might. I don't see how, myself, but I'm a foolish little thing, with no head for business matters.” She shook her head, and gurgled an absurd little laugh, and then, after a loquacious leave-taking, she went away.

“Well?” I said to Florence, and then, “Well?” Florence said to me.

It was astonishing how rapidly our acquaintance had progressed. Already we had laid aside all formality of speech and manner, and if the girl had not really discovered my mental attitude toward her, at least I think she must have suspected it.

“Of course,” I began, “I knew it wasn't your bag, because you said it wasn't. But I did incline a little to the `woman visitor' theory, and now that is destroyed. I think we must conclude that the bag was brought here by the person who found it on that midnight train.”

“Why didn't that person turn it over to the conductor?” she said, more as if thinking to herself than speaking to me.

“Yes, why, indeed?” I echoed. “And if he brought it here, and committed a criminal act, why go away and leave it here?”

I think it was at the same moment that the minds of both of us turned to Gregory Hall. Her eyes fell, and as for me, I was nearly stunned with the thoughts that came rushing to my brain.

If the late newspaper had seemed to point to Hall's coming out on that late train, how much more so this bag, which had been left on that very train.

We were silent for a time, and then, lifting her sweet eyes bravely to mine, Florence said,

“I have something to tell you.”

“Yes,” I replied, crushing down the longing to take her in my arms and let her tell it there.

“Mr. Hall had a talk with me this morning. He says that he and the others have searched everywhere possible for the will, and it cannot be found. He says Uncle Joseph must have destroyed it, and that it is practically settled that Uncle Philip is the legal heir. Of course, Mr. Philip Crawford isn't my uncle, but I have always called him that, and Phil and I have been just like cousins.”

“What else did Mr. Hall say?” I asked, for I divined that the difficult part of her recital was yet to come.

“He said,” she went on, with a rising color, “that he wished me to break our engagement.”

I will do myself the justice to say that although my first uncontrollable thought was one of pure joy at this revelation, yet it was instantly followed by sympathy and consideration for her.

“Why?” I asked in a voice that I tried to keep from being hard.

“He says,” she continued, with a note of weariness in her voice, “that he is not a rich man, and cannot give me the comforts and luxuries to which I have been accustomed, and that therefore it is only right for him to release me.”

“Of course you didn't accept his generous sacrifice,” I said; and my own hopes ran riot as I listened for her answer.

“I told him I was willing to share poverty with him,” she said, with a quiet dignity, as if telling an impersonal tale, “but he insisted that the engagement should be broken.”

“And is it?” I asked eagerly, almost breathlessly.

She gave me that look which always rebuked me--always put me back in my place--but which, it seemed to me, was a little less severe than ever before. “It's left undecided for a day or two,” she said. Then she added hurriedly,

“I must see if he needs me. Do you suppose this story of Mrs. Cunningham's will in any way--well, affect him?”

“It may,” I replied truthfully. “At any rate, he must be made to tell where he was and what he was doing Tuesday night. You have no idea, have you?”

Florence hesitated a moment, looked at me in a way I could not fathom, and then, but only after a little choking sound in her throat, she said,

“No, I have no idea.”

It was impossible to believe her. No one would show such emotion, such difficulty of speech, if telling a simple truth. Yet when I looked in her troubled eyes, and read there anxiety, uncertainty, and misery, I only loved her more than ever. Truly it was time for me to give up this case. Whatever turn it took, I was no fit person to handle clues or evidence which filled me with deadly fear lest they turn against the one I loved.

And yet that one, already suspected by many, had been proved to have both motive and opportunity.

And I, I who loved her, knew that, in one instance, at least, she had been untruthful.