t the quietly spoken answer, accompanied by a natural and
straightforward look promised little for my new theory.

"Does Miss Lloyd sometimes give you some of her flowers?"

"Oh, yes, sir, quite often."

"That is, if she's there when they arrive. But if she isn't there, and
you open the box yourself, she wouldn't mind if you took one or two
blossoms, would she?"

"Oh, no, sir, she wouldn't mind. Miss Lloyd's awful kind about such
things. But I wouldn't often do it, sir."

"No; of course not. But you did happen to take one of those yellow
roses, didn't you, though?"

I breathlessly awaited the answer, but to my surprise, instead of
embarrassment the girl's eyes flashed with anger, though she answered
quietly enough, "Well, yes, I did, sir."

Ah, at last I was on the trail of that twelfth rose! But from the frank
way in which the girl admitted having taken the flower, I greatly feared
that the trail would lead to a commonplace ending.

"What did you do with it?" I said quietly, endeavoring to make the
question sound of little importance.

"I don't want to tell you;" and the pout on her scarlet lips seemed more
like that of a wilful child than of one guarding a guilty secret.

"Oh, yes, tell me, Elsa;" and I even descended to a coaxing tone, to win
the girl's confidence.

"Well, I gave it to that Louis."

"To Louis? and why do you call him that Louis?"

"Oh, because. I gave him the flower to wear because I thought he was
going to take me out that evening. He had promised he would, at least he
had sort of promised, and then,--and then--"

"And then he took another young lady," I finished for her in tones of
such sympathy and indignation that she seemed to think she had found a
friend.

"Yes," she said, "he went and took another girl riding on the trolley,
after he had said he would take me."

"Elsa," I said suddenly, and I fear she thought I had lost interest in
her broken heart, "did Louis wear that rose you gave him that night?"

"Yes, the horrid man! I saw it in his coat when he went away."

"And did he wear it home again?"

"How should I know?" Elsa tossed her head with what was meant to be a
haughty air, but which was belied by the blush that mantled her cheek at
her own prevarication.

"But you do know," I insisted, gently; "did he wear it when he came
home?"

"Yes, he did."

"How do you know?"

"Because I looked in his room the next day, and I saw it there all
withered. He had thrown it