ominy it need not
be before a servant. So I dismissed Louis, perhaps rather curtly, and
turning to Miss Lloyd, I asked her if she believed his assertion that he
did not pass by the office that night.

"I don't know what I believe," she answered, wearily drawing her hand
across her brow. "And I can't see that it matters anyway. Supposing
he did go by the office, you certainly don't suspect him of my uncle's
murder, do you?"

"It is my duty, Miss Lloyd," I said gently, for the girl was pitiably
nervous, "to get the testimony of any one who was in or near the office
that night. But of course testimony is useless unless it is true."

I looked her straight in the eyes as I said this, for I was thoroughly
convinced that her own testimony at the inquest had not been entirely
true.

I think she understood my glance, for she arose at once, and said
with extreme dignity: "I cannot see any necessity for prolonging this
interview, Mr. Burroughs. It is of course your work to discover the
truth or falsity of Louis's story, but I cannot see that it in any way
implicates or even interests me."

The girl was superb. Her beauty was enhanced by the sudden spirit she
showed, and her flashing dark eyes suggested a baited animal at bay.
Apparently she had reached the limit of her endurance, and was unwilling
to be questioned further or drawn into further admissions. And yet, some
inexplicable idea came to me that she was angry, not with me, but with
the tangle in which I had remorselessly enmeshed her. Of a high order of
intelligence, she knew perfectly well that I was conscious of the fact
that there was a secret of some sort between her and the valet. Her
haughty disdain, I felt sure, was to convey the impression that though
there might be a secret between them, it was no collusion or working
together, and that though her understanding with the man was mysterious,
it was in no way beneath her dignity. Her imperious air as she quietly
left the room thrilled me anew, and I began to think that a woman who
could assume the haughty demeanor of an empress might have chosen, as
empresses had done before her, to commit crime.

However, she went away, and the dark and stately library seemed to have
lost its only spot of light and charm. I sat for a few minutes pondering
over it all, when I saw passing through the hall, the maid, Elsa. It
suddenly occurred to me, that having failed with the mistress of the
house, I might succeed better with h