“The bag wasn't there when you were there?”
“I'm sure it was not! That is, not in sight, and Uncle Joseph was not the sort of man to have such a thing put away in his desk as a souvenir, or for any other reason.”
“Forgive the insinuation, but of course you could not know positively that Mr. Crawford would not have a feminine souvenir in his desk.”
She looked up surprised. “Of course I could not be positive,” she said, “but it is difficult to imagine anything sentimental connected with Uncle Joseph.”
She almost smiled as she said this, 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.”