“I'm sure it was not! That is, not in sight, and Uncle Joseph was not the sort of man to have such a thing put away in his desk as a souvenir, or for any other reason.” “Forgive the insinuation, but of course you could not know positively that Mr. Crawford would not have a feminine souvenir in his desk.” She looked up surprised. “Of course I could not be positive,” she said, “but it is difficult to imagine anything sentimental connected with Uncle Joseph.” She almost smiled as she said this, for apparently the mere idea was amusing, and I had a flashing glimpse of what it must be to see Florence Lloyd smile! Well it should not be my fault, or due to my lack of exertion, if the day did not come when she should smile again, and I promised myself I should be there to see it. But stifling these thoughts, I brought my mind back to duty. Drawing from my pocket the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford's desk, I showed it to her. “In Uncle's desk!” she exclaimed. “This does surprise me. I had no idea Uncle Joseph had received a photograph from a lady with an affectionate message, too. Are you quite sure it belonged to him?” “I only know that we found it in his desk, hidden beneath some old letters and papers.” “Were the letters from this lady?” “No; in no case could we find a signature that agreed with these initials.” “Here's your chance, Mr. Burroughs,” and again Florence Lloyd's dimples nearly escaped the bondage which held them during these sad days. “If you're a detective, you ought to gather at once from this photograph and signature all the details about this lady; who she is, and what she had to do with Uncle Joseph.” “I wish I could do so,” I replied, “but you see, I'm not that kind of detective. I have a friend, Mr. Stone, who could do it, and would tell you, as you say, everything about that lady, merely by looking at her picture.” As a case in point, I told her then and there the story of Fleming Stone's wonderful deductions from the pair of muddy shoes we had seen in a hotel one morning. “But you never proved that it was true?” she asked, her dark eyes sparkling with interest, and her face alight with animation. “No, but it wasn't necessary. Stone's deductions are always right, and if not, you know it is the exception that proves the rule.” “Well, let us try to deduce a little from this picture. I don't believe for a moment, that Uncle Joseph had a romantic attachment for any lady, though these words on the back of the picture do seem to indicate it.” “Well, go on,” said I, so carried away by the fascination of the girl, when she had for a moment seemed to forget her troubles, that I wanted to prolong the moment. “Go ahead, and see what inferences you can draw from the photograph.” “I think she is about fifty years old,” Florence began, “or perhaps fifty-five. What do you think?”