You remember that I picked up something, do you not?"
"I do. Your glove, was it not?"
"Yes. It was my glove! I defy the whole world to take it from me! I would
die before such a proof should be brought against the man I love!" she
cried wildly. "See here!"
She drew from her bosom a kid glove, stained and stiff with blood.
"Margie, have you ever seen it before? Look here. It has been mended;
sewed with blue silk! Do you remember anything about it?"
"Yes; I saw you mend it at Cape May," she answered, the words forced from
her, apparently, without her volition.
"You are right. He had torn it while rowing me out, one morning. I saw
the rent and offered to repair it. He makes his gloves wear well, doesn't
he?"
"O don't! don't! how can you! Alexandrine, wake me, for mercy's sake!
This is some horrible dream."
"I would to heaven it were! It would be happier for us all. But if you
feel any doubt about the identity of the glove, look here." She turned
back the wrist, and there on the inside, written in the bold characters
which were a peculiarity of Arch Trevlyn's handwriting, was the name
in full--_Archer Trevlyn_.
Margie shrank back and covered her eyes, as if to shut out the terrible
proof. Alexandrine returned the glove to her bosom, and then continued:
"The handkerchief found near Mr.
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