A huge bunch of long-stemmed roses, still in the florist's box, was filling the cell with color and fragrance.
"Who sent them?" asked Lyon suspiciously.
"Devil a card or a scrap of writing with them."
"Oh, then it's merely because you have become a celebrity," said Lyon, indifferently. "Silly women are always sending flowers to the principals in any murder case."
"Bad luck to you, you're jealous," cried Lawrence. "If you are going to slander my roses after that fashion, you can go,--go and get me a dictionary of the flower language. I want to find out what American Beauties mean,--when they come without a card."
"I'd like to know myself," said Lyon, taking note of the florist's name on the box.
Lawrence looked at him with mischievous eyes, that still were dancing with happiness. "Oh, but you are slow of imagination, Lyon," he said, softly.
Lyon concluded that he was not needed at that moment as a cheerer of those in prison, so he got away, and hunted up Howell's office in a tall office building down town. He was taken into the lawyer's private office, where he found Howell with his hands behind his back, staring moodily through the window into a dingy court, instead of deep in his books as a lawyer is supposed to be. There was exasperation and protest in every line of his figure. He turned to nod to Lyon without relaxing his gloom.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Lyon. Sit down. I asked you to call in connection with this case of Lawrence's."
"Yes."