"Mine."
"A lost glove?"
"Yes."
"A right-hand glove?"
"Yes."
"Where had you lost it?"
Harry hesitated.
"Will you look about the room and tell me if you see any person besides your mother whom you saw on that Saturday afternoon of the fire?"
Walter Riley had recovered by this time from Kennedy's caning and occupied a front seat among the spectators. But it was Rosalie's eye that Harry met—met and hastily avoided. Had she seen him after all that afternoon when he crossed Bond street from the burning house? Would this remorseless inquisitor contradict his denial with the affirmation of the woman he loved?
"Wasn't it you instead of Floyd who paid a cash fare to Conductor Checkerberry on the 3:29 train and whose voice he recognized here yesterday?"