“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.”