“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 such an occurrence might have been an innocent one, yet, taken in connection with the crime, there is a dreadful possibility.”