THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
things that nobody else would think of doing. I suppose I haven't got all the way back into my civilization shell."
She took something from the mantel. She held the object out toward him. The expression on her face was puzzling.
"What's this?" he asked.
"It's a glove. Your name is written inside in ink. You left it on the floor of the storeroom."
Thunderstruck, Armitage took the glove and sat down.
"Why?" She covered her eyes for a moment as if to shut out some dread picture. "I . . . I might have killed you! . . . It would have killed me! . . . Why? Haven't I told you—haven't I tried to impress upon you that anything you wanted was yours for the simple asking?"
He sat there, dumb. The glove hypnotized him.
"Whatever was in that safe was yours. All you had to do was to tell me. Why didn't you?"
He wet his lips, but he could not find the words he needed.
"There is some dreadful mystery here.
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