for it, and as he saw the look of utter despair on her face, he pulled out the whole drawer, a small one, and lifted it down.
But his find was not a “lucky piece”—instead it was something far more gruesome. For, wadded up in a corner of the drawer was a long white kid glove—stained on the fingertips with a brownish tinge—unmistakably human blood.
It did not need her breat-broken cry of dismay to tell him he had discovered her secret, and he came slowly toward her.
“Miss Cutler—is this yours?”
“No—oh, no.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” indignantly.
“Then whose is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is it here?”
She braced up. Whatever the reason—perhaps sheer desperation—she sat up straight, drew herself together, and answered:
“I found it on the floor near the body of Mrs. Barham.”
“When you leaned over her?”
“Yes; I did lean over to see if she were dead or alive. I was horribly frightened, but I thought it my duty to see that, at least.”
“And she was dead?”
“I think so. I tried to feel her heart, but I couldn’t—there was such an elaborate fringe and tinsel on the bodice. So, I—well, Mr. Hutchins, I think I rather lost my head. I had never seen a dead person before—like that, I mean—and I don’t know what I did. I grabbed the glove”
“Why?”
I think I had a half formed fear that it might belong
