ch an occurrence might have
been an innocent one, yet, taken in connection with the crime, there is
a dreadful possibility."

"Granting this," I suggested, "we ought to be able to trace the owner of
the bag."

"Not likely. If the owner of that bag--a woman, presumably--is
the slayer of Joseph Crawford, and made her escape from the scene
undiscovered, she is not likely to stay around where she may be found.
And the bag itself, and its contents, are hopelessly unindividual."

"They are that," I agreed. "Not a thing in it that mightn't be in any
woman's bag in this country. To me, that cleaner's advertisement means
nothing in connection with Miss Lloyd."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Burroughs. I confess I have had a
half-fear that your suspicions had a trend in Florence's direction,
and I assure you, sir, that girl is incapable of the slightest impulse
toward crime."

"I'm sure of that," I said heartily, my blood bounding in my veins at
an opportunity to speak in defense of the woman I loved. "But how if her
impulses were directed, or even coerced, by another?"

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"Oh, nothing. But sometimes the best and sweetest women will act against
their own good impulses for those they love."

"I cannot pretend to misunderstand you," said Mr. Porter. "But you are
wrong. If the one you have in mind--I will say no name--was in any
way guiltily implicated, it was without the knowledge or connivance of
Florence Lloyd. But, man, the idea is absurd. The individual in question
has a perfect alibi."

"He refuses to give it."

"Refuses the details, perhaps. And he has a right to, since they concern
no one but himself. No, my friend, you know the French rule; well,
follow that, and search for the lady with the gold-mesh bag."

"The lady without it, at present," I said, with an apologetic smile for
my rather grim jest.

"Yes; and that's the difficulty. As she hasn't the bag, we can't
discover her. So as a clue it is worthless."

"It seems to be," I agreed.

I thought best not to tell Mr. Porter of the card I had found in the
bag, for I hoped soon to hear from headquarters concerning the lady
whose name it bore. But I told him about the photograph I had found in
Mr. Crawford's desk, and showed it to him. He did not recognize it as
being a portrait of any one he had ever seen. Nor did he take it very
seriously as a clue.

"I'm quite sure," he said, "that Joseph Crawford has not been inte