to some one I knew—that crime might be suspected”
“But it’s a woman’s glove”
“I know. But is a woman never guilty of crime?”
“Murder?”
“It has been known, hasn’t it? And isn’t the weapon that was used—a heavy weight, more the thing a woman would use? Can you imagine a man throwing that at a woman?”
“Yes, more easily than I can imagine a woman doing it. You are romancing, Miss Cutler”
“I am not! I am telling you the truth. I was scared, even dazed at the awful situation, and I took the glove—brought it home and hid it—all because of that vague fear that it might implicate some one I care for—a dear friend”
“Miss Vallon?”
“Yes, of course,” impatiently. “But I learned that she had her gloves—both of them—and then I thought no more about it. If that glove is of any importance, take it—I don’t know whose it is.”
“I will take it. But don’t think I can’t read you! You are trying to turn the conversation away from the main theme—trying to turn suspicion away from the man you love. Away from Thomas Locke. You suspect him yourself—but you want to shield him. That is why you went to the dead woman. That is why you bent down over her—You thought you would remove incriminating evidence, if you could find any. You opened her hand—the dead woman’s hand, whether you found anything in it or not. What did you expect to find?”
“Nothing,” Pearl Jane was sullen now. She kept her eyes down, her head turned away.
But, during the conversation, Hutchins’s ever busy eyes had found something else.
