“It doesn't help us in one way,” he said, “for of course, Mrs. Cunningham is not implicated. But the bag is still a clue, for how did it get into Mr. Crawford's office?” “We must find out who Mr. Cunningham is,” I suggested. “He's not the criminal, either. If he had left his wife's bag there, he never would have let her send this letter.” “Perhaps he didn't know she wrote it.” “Oh, perhaps lots of things! But I am anxious to learn what Mrs. Cunningham tells Miss Lloyd.” “Let us go over to the Crawford house, and tell Miss Lloyd about it.” “Not this morning; I've another engagement. And besides, the little lady won't get around so soon.” “Why a little lady?” I asked, smiling. “Oh, the whole tone of the letter seems to imply a little yellow-haired butterfly of a woman.” “Just the reverse of Florence Lloyd,” I said musingly. “Yes; no one could imagine Miss Lloyd writing a letter like that. There's lots of personality in a woman's letter. Much more than in a man's.” Parmalee went away, and prompted by his suggestions, I studied the letter I had just received. It was merely an idle fancy, for if Mrs. Cunningham was going to tell Miss Lloyd her story, it made little difference to me what might be her stature or the color of her hair. But, probably because of Parmalee's suggestion, I pictured her to myself as a pretty young woman with that air of half innocence and half ignorance which so well becomes the plump blonde type. The broad veranda of the Sedgwick Arms was a pleasant place to sit, and I had mused there for some time, when Mr. Carstairs came out to tell me that I was asked for on the telephone. The call proved to be from Florence Lloyd asking me to come to her at once. Only too glad to obey this summons, I went directly to the Crawford house, wondering if any new evidence had been brought to light. Lambert opened the door for me, and ushered me into the library, where Florence was receiving a lady caller. “Mrs. Cunningham,” said Florence, as I entered, “may I present Mr. Burroughs--Mr. Herbert Burroughs. I sent for you,” she added, turning to me, “because Mrs. Cunningham has an important story to tell, and I thought you ought to hear it at once.” I bowed politely to the stranger, and awaited her disclosures. Mrs. Cunningham was a pretty, frivolous-looking woman, with appealing blue eyes, and a manner half-childish, half-apologetic. I smiled involuntarily to see how nearly her appearance coincided with the picture in my mind, and I greeted her almost as if she were a previous acquaintance. “I know I've done very wrong,” she began, with a nervous little flutter of her pretty hands; “but I'm ready now to 'fess up, as the children say.” She looked at me, so sure of an answering smile, that I gave it, and said, “Let us hear your confession, Mrs. Cunningham; I doubt if it's a very dreadful one.” “Well, you see,” she went on, “that gold bag is mine.” “Yes,” I said; “how did it get here?”