“No, sir. She changed her evening gown for a teagown, and then said she would sit up for an hour or so and write letters, and I needn't wait.” “You left her then?” “Yes, sir.” “Did Miss Lloyd wear any flowers at dinner last evening?” “No, sir. There were no guests--only the family.” “Ah, quite so. But did she, by chance, pin on any flowers after she went to her room?” “Why, yes, sir; she did. A box of roses had come for her by a messenger, and when she found them in her room, she pinned one on the lace of her teagown.” “Yes? And what time did the flowers arrive?” “While Miss Lloyd was at dinner, sir. I took them from the box and put them in water, sir.” “And what sort of flowers were they?” “Yellow roses, sir.” “That will do, Elsa. You are excused.” The girl looked bewildered, and a little embarrassed as she returned to her place among the other servants, and Miss Lloyd looked a little bewildered also. But then, for that matter, no body understood the reason for the questions about the flowers, and though most of the jury merely looked preternaturally wise on the subject, Mr. Orville scribbled it all down in his little book. I was now glad to see the man keep up his indefatigable note-taking. If the reporters or stenographers missed any points, I could surely get them from him. But from the industry with which he wrote, I began to think he must be composing an elaborate thesis on yellow roses and their habits. Mr. Porter, looking greatly puzzled, observed to the coroner, “I have listened to your inquiries with interest; and I would like to know what, if any, special importance is attached to this subject of yellow roses.” “I'm not able to tell you,” replied Mr. Monroe. “I asked these questions at the instigation of another, who doubtless has some good reason for them, which he will explain in due time.” Mr. Porter seemed satisfied with this, and I nodded my head at the coroner, as if bidding him to proceed. But if I had been surprised before at the all but spoken intelligence which passed between the two servants, Elsa and Louis, I was more amazed now. They shot rapid glances at each other, which were evidently full of meaning to themselves. Elsa was deathly white, her lips trembled, and she looked at the Frenchman as if in terror of her life. But though he glanced at her meaningly, now and then, Louis's anxiety seemed to me to be more for Florence Lloyd than for her maid. But now the coroner was talking very gravely to Miss Lloyd. “Do you corroborate,” he was saying, “the statements of your maid about the flowers that were sent you last evening?” “I do,” she replied. “From whom did they come?” “From Mr. Hall.” “Mr. Hall,” said, the coroner, turning toward the young man, “how could you send flowers to Miss Lloyd last evening if you were in New York City?”