“When you went up to your room at ten o'clock, the flowers were there?” I asked, and I felt a most uncomfortable pounding at my heart because of the trap I was deliberately laying for her. But it had to be done, and even as I spoke, I experienced a glad realization, that if she were innocent, my questions could do her no harm.
“Yes,” she repeated, and for the first time favored me with a look of interest. I doubt if she knew my name or scarcely knew why I was there.
“And you pinned one on your gown?”
“I tucked it in among the laces at my throat, yes.”
“Miss Lloyd, do you still persist in saying you did not go down-stairs again, to your uncle's office?”
“I did not,” she repeated, but she turned white, and her voice was scarce more than a whisper.
“Then,” said I, “how did two petals of a yellow rose happen to be on the floor in the office this morning?”
VII. YELLOW ROSES
If any one expected to see Miss Lloyd faint or collapse at this crisis he must have been disappointed, and as I had confidently expected such a scene, I was completely surprised at her quick recovery of self-possession.