to have begun then; nothing seems to have happened before."
I took a pair of white kid gloves out of my coat pocket.
"Are these your gloves?"
She eyed them askance.
"I don't know—are they? Where did you get them from?"
I did not care to tell her that I found them on a chair in the room in which Edwin Lawrence lay dead.
"You should know better than I, if they are yours."
"They may be—I can't tell. I'll try them on and see if they fit." She did try them on, and they did fit—to perfection. She held out her gloved hands. "They look as if they were mine—they must be; don't you think they are?"
"I have not a doubt that they are yours."
I turned my face away. A weight had become suddenly attached to my heart There was a choking something in my throat. She was quick to perceive the alteration in my demeanour.
"Why do you turn your face away from me? Have I said or done anything wrong? Aren't the gloves mine?"
I replied to her with another question.
"Do you know any one named Lawrence?"
