The Gold Bag [64]
grande dame. "Mr. Burroughs?" she said, looking through her lorgnon at my card, which she held in her hand. "Yes," I assented, and judging from her appearance that she was a woman of a decided and straightforward nature I came at once to the point. "I'm a detective, madam," I began, and the remark startled her out of her calm. "A detective!" she cried out, with much the same tone as if I had said a rattlesnake. "Do not be alarmed, I merely state my profession to explain my errand." "Not be alarmed! when a detective comes to see me! How can I help it? Why, I've never had such an experience before. It is shocking! I've met many queer people in the States, but not a detective! Reporters are bad enough!" "Don't let it disturb you so, Mrs. Purvis. I assure you there is nothing to trouble you in the fact of my presence here, unless it is trouble of your own making." "Trouble of my own making!" she almost shrieked. " Tell me at once what you mean, or I shall ring the bell and have you dismissed." Her fear and excitement made me think that perhaps I was on the track of new developments, and lest she should carry out her threat of ringing the bell, I plunged at once into the subject. "Mrs. Purvis, have you lost a gold-mesh bag?" I said bluntly. "No, I haven't," she snapped, "and if I had, I should take means to recover it, and not wait for a detective to come and ask me about it." I was terribly disappointed. To be sure she might be telling a falsehood about the bag, but I didn't think so. She was angry, annoyed, and a little frightened at my intrusion, but she was not at all embarrassed at my question. "Are you quite sure you have not lost a gold-link bag?" I insisted, as if in idiotic endeavor to persuade her to have done so. "Of course I'm sure," she replied, half laughing now; "I suppose I should know it if I had done so." "It's a rather valuable bag," I went on, "with a gold frame-work and gold chain." "Well, if it's worth a whole fortune, it isn't my bag," she declared; "for I never owned such a one." "Well," I said, in desperation, "your visiting card is in it." "My visiting card!" she said, with an expression of blank wonderment. "Well, even if that is true, it doesn't make it my bag. I frequently give my cards to other people." This seemed to promise light at last. Somehow I couldn't doubt her assertion that it was not her bag, and yet the thought suddenly occurred to me if she were clever enough to be implicated in the Crawford tragedy, and if she had left her bag there, she would be expecting this inquiry, and would probably be clever enough to have a story prepared. "Mrs. Purvis, since you say it is not your bag, I'm going to ask you, in the interests of justice, to help me all you can." "I'm quite willing to do so, sir. What is it you wish to know?" "A crime has been committed in a small town in New Jersey. A gold-link bag was afterward discovered at the scene of the crime, and though none of its other contents betokened its owner, a visiting card with your name on it was in the bag." Becoming interested in the story, Mrs. Purvis seemed to get over her fright, and was exceedingly sensible for a woman. "It certainly is not my bag, Mr. Burroughs, and if my card is in it, I can only say that I must have given that card to the lady who owns the bag." This seemed distinctly plausible, and also promised further information. "Do you remember giving your card to any lady with such a bag?" Mrs. Purvis smiled. "So many of your American women carry those bags," she said; "they seem to be almost universal this year. I have probably given my card to a score of ladies, who immediately put it into just such a bag." "Could you tell me who they are?" "No, indeed;" and Mrs. Purvis almost laughed outright, at what was doubtless a foolish question. "But can't you help me in any way?" I pleaded. "I don't really see how I can," she replied. "You see I have so many friends in New York, and they make little parties for me, or afternoon teas. Then I meet a great many American ladies, and we often exchange cards. But we do