“Does Miss Lloyd sometimes give you some of her flowers?”
“Oh, yes, sir, quite often.”
“That is, if she's there when they arrive. But if she isn't there, and you open the box yourself, she wouldn't mind if you took one or two blossoms, would she?”
“Oh, no, sir, she wouldn't mind. Miss Lloyd's awful kind about such things. But I wouldn't often do it, sir.”
“No; of course not. But you did happen to take one of those yellow roses, didn't you, though?”
I breathlessly awaited the answer, but to my surprise, instead of embarrassment the girl's eyes flashed with anger, though she answered quietly enough, “Well, yes, I did, sir.”
Ah, at last I was on the trail of that twelfth rose! But from the frank way in which the girl admitted having taken the flower, I greatly feared that the trail would lead to a commonplace ending.
“What did you do with it?” I said quietly, endeavoring to make the question sound of little importance.
“I don't want to tell you;” and the pout on her scarlet lips seemed more like that of a wilful child than of one guarding a guilty secret.
“Oh, yes, tell me, Elsa;” and I even descended to a coaxing tone, to win the girl's confidence.