“You know the old story of the man who said he wouldn't hire a dog and then do his own barking. Well, though I haven't 'hired' you, I would be quite ready to pay your honorarium if you can ferret out our West Sedgwick mystery. And so, as you are the detective in charge of the case, I ask you, what do you think about it all?” But I was pretty thoroughly on my guard now. “I think,” I began, “that much hinges on the ownership of that gold bag.” “And you do not think it is Miss Lloyd's?” “I do not.” “It need not incriminate her, if it were hers,” said Mr. Porter, meditatively knocking the ash from said his cigar. “She might have left it in the office at any time previous to the day of the crime. Women are always leaving such things about. I confess it does not seem to me important.” “Was it on Mr. Crawford's desk when you were there?” I asked suddenly. He looked up at me quickly, and again that half-smile came into his eyes. “Am I to be questioned?” he said. “Well, I've no objections, I'm sure. No, I do not think it was there when I called on Mr. Crawford that evening. But I couldn't swear to this, for I am not an observant man, and the thing might have lain there in front of me and never caught my eye. If I had noticed it, of course I should have thought it was Florence's.” “But you don't think so now, do you?” “No; I can't say I think so. And yet I can imagine a girl untruthfully denying ownership under such circumstances.” I started at this. For hadn't Miss Lloyd untruthfully denied coming down-stairs to talk to her uncle? “But,” went on Mr. Porter, “if the bag is not Florence's, then I can think of but one explanation for its presence there.” “A lady visitor, late at night,” I said slowly. “Yes,” was the grave reply; “and though such 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?”