The Gold Bag [66]
at the station, and I told him the whole story, for I thought him entitled to the information at once. "Why, man alive!" he exclaimed, "Marathon Park is the very next station to West Sedgwick!" "So it is!" I said; "I knew I had a hazy idea of having seen the name, but the trains I have taken to and from New York have been expresses, which didn't stop there, and I paid no attention to it." "It's a small park," went on Parmalee, "of swagger residences; very exclusive and reserved, you know. You've certainly unearthed startling news, but I can't help thinking that it will be a wild goose chase that leads us to look for our criminal in Marathon Park!" "What do you think we'd better do?" said I. "Go to see Mrs. Cunningham?" "No, I wouldn't do that," said Parmalee, who had a sort of plebeian hesitancy at the thought of intruding upon aristocratic strangers. "Suppose you write her a letter and just ask her if she has lost her bag." "All right," I conceded, for truth to tell, I greatly preferred to stay in West Sedgwick than to go out of it, for I had always the undefined hope of seeing Florence Lloyd. So I wrote a letter, not exactly curt, but strictly formal, asking Mrs. Cunningham if she had recently lost a gold-mesh bag, containing her gloves and handkerchief. Then Parmalee and I agreed to keep the matter a secret until we should get a reply to this, for we concluded there was no use in stirring up public curiosity on the matter until we knew ourselves that we were on the right trail.
XVII THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG
The next day I received a letter addressed in modish, angular penmanship, which, before I opened it, I felt sure had come from Mrs. Cunningham. It ran as follows Mr. HERBERT Burroughs Dear Sir: Yes, I have lost a gold bag, and I have known all along that it is the one the newspapers are talking so much about in connection with the Crawford case. I know, too, that you are the detective on the case, and though I can't imagine how you did it, I think it was awfully clever of you to trace the bag to me, for I'm sure my name wasn't in it anywhere. As I say, the bag is mine, but I didn't kill Mr. Crawford, and I don't know who did. I would go straight to you, and tell you all about it, but I am afraid of detectives and lawyers, and I don't want to be mixed up in the affair anyway. But I am going to see Miss Lloyd, and explain it all to her, and then she can tell you. Please don't let my name get in the papers, as I hate that sort of prominence. Very truly yours, ELIZABETH CUNNINGHAM. I smiled a little over the femininity of the letter, but as Parmalee had prophesied, Marathon Park was evidently no place to look for our criminal. The foolish little woman who had written that letter, had no guilty secret on her conscience, of that I was sure. I telephoned for Parmalee and showed him the letter. "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,
XVII THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG
The next day I received a letter addressed in modish, angular penmanship, which, before I opened it, I felt sure had come from Mrs. Cunningham. It ran as follows Mr. HERBERT Burroughs Dear Sir: Yes, I have lost a gold bag, and I have known all along that it is the one the newspapers are talking so much about in connection with the Crawford case. I know, too, that you are the detective on the case, and though I can't imagine how you did it, I think it was awfully clever of you to trace the bag to me, for I'm sure my name wasn't in it anywhere. As I say, the bag is mine, but I didn't kill Mr. Crawford, and I don't know who did. I would go straight to you, and tell you all about it, but I am afraid of detectives and lawyers, and I don't want to be mixed up in the affair anyway. But I am going to see Miss Lloyd, and explain it all to her, and then she can tell you. Please don't let my name get in the papers, as I hate that sort of prominence. Very truly yours, ELIZABETH CUNNINGHAM. I smiled a little over the femininity of the letter, but as Parmalee had prophesied, Marathon Park was evidently no place to look for our criminal. The foolish little woman who had written that letter, had no guilty secret on her conscience, of that I was sure. I telephoned for Parmalee and showed him the letter. "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,