"No; of course not," returned Parmalee. "She's no fool, Florence
Lloyd isn't! She's locked in her room and won't come out. Been
there all the morning. Her maid says this isn't Miss Lloyd's
bag, but of course she'd say that."

"Well, that question ought to be easily settled. What's in the
bag?"

"Look for yourself. Monroe and I ran through the stuff, but
there's nothing to say for sure whose bag it is."

I opened the pretty bauble, and let the contents fall out on the
desk.

A crumpled handkerchief, a pair of white kid gloves, a little
trinket known as a "vanity case," containing a tiny mirror and a
tinier powder puff; a couple of small hair-pins, a newspaper
clipping, and a few silver coins were all that rewarded my
trouble.

Nothing definite, indeed, and yet I knew if Fleming Stone could
look at the little heap of feminine belongings, he would at once
tell the fair owner's age, height, and weight, if not her name
and address.

I had only recently assured myself that such deductions were of
little or no use, and yet, I could not help minutely examining
the pretty trifles lying on the desk. I scrutinized the
handkerchief for a monogram or an initial, but it had none. It