He produced from his coat-pocket, as he spoke, a glove. A gentleman's kid glove, pale-brown in color, and considerably soiled with wear. Val started as he saw it, for those were the kind of gloves Charley Marsh always wore—he had them made to order in one of the stores of the town. The coroner examined it with a very grave face—there were two letters inside, "C. M."
"Do you know to whom this glove belongs?" the coroner asked.
"I know I found it," said Nettleby, not looking at it, and speaking sulkily, "that's all I know about it."
"Does any one you know wear such gloves?"
"Plenty of gentlemen I've seen wear brown kid gloves."
"Have you seen the initials, 'C. M.,' inside this glove?"
"I have."
"And—on your oath, recollect—are you not morally certain you know its owner?"
Nettleby was silent.
"Speak, witness," the coroner cried; "answer the question put to you. Who do you suspect is the owner of this glove?"