He was looking at a white glove that lay near him on the ground.
He dropped his head and slowly reached forth his hand till he grasped the glove.
"It's hers," was the answer.
"Hers? Caro's?" he asked, eagerly.
But as he spoke the faint odor of iris came to him from the bit of leather in his grasp. He knew that odor of iris; it had always been inseparable from anything belonging to Prudence Ffolliott.
"No," replied Leander; "it's Prue's."
Lawrence lay silent. His face was dull and clouded.
"Oh, I do wish I could do something!" exclaimed Leander. "She's gone on for help."
"Who's gone on?"
"Why, Prue, of course."