“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,