The inspector sat with folded hands watching me with interest but
saying nothing. Parmalee, on the other hand, kept up a running
conversation, sometimes remarking lightly on my actions, and
again returning to the subject of Miss Lloyd.

"I can see," he said, "that you naturally dislike to suspect a
woman, and a young woman too. But you don't know Miss Lloyd.
She is haughty and wilful. And as I told you, nobody has
mentioned her yet in this connection. But I am speaking to you
alone, and I have no reason to mince matters. And you know
Florence Lloyd is not of the Crawford stock. The Crawfords are a
fine old family, and not one of them could be capable of crime.
But Miss Lloyd is on the other side of the house, a niece of Mrs.
Crawford; and I've heard that the Lloyd stock is not all that
could be desired. There is a great deal in heredity, and she may
not be responsible . . ."

I paid little attention to Parmalee's talk, which was thrown at
me in jerky, desultory sentences, and interested me not at all.
I went on with my work of investigation, and though I did not get
down on my knees and examine every square inch of the carpet with
a lens, yet I thoroughly examined all of the contents of the
room. I regret to say, however, that I found nothing that seemed
to be a clue to the murderer.

Stepping out on the veranda, I looked for footprints. The "light
snow" usually so helpful to a detective had not fallen, as it was
April, and rather warm for the season. But I found many heel
marks, apparently of men's boots; yet they were not necessarily