honestly that frankness will best serve your interests."
He paused, and the woman looked at him with an ironically questioning gaze.
"Am I supposed to thank you for your generous advice?"
Markham's scowl deepened as he glanced down at a typewritten page on his desk.
"You are probably aware that your gloves and hand-bag were found in Mr. Benson's house the morning after he was shot."
"I can understand how you might have traced the hand-bag to me," she said; "but how did you arrive at the conclusion that the gloves were mine?"
Markham looked up sharply.
"Do you mean to say the gloves are not yours?"
"Oh, no." She gave him another wintry smile. "I merely wondered how you knew they belonged to me, since you couldn't have known either my taste in gloves or the size I wore."
"They're your gloves, then?"
"If they are Tréfousse, size five-and-three-quarters, of white kid and elbow length, they are certainly mine. And I'd so like to have them back, if you don't mind."
"I'm sorry," said Markham; "but it is necessary that I keep them for the present."
She dismissed the matter with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked.
Markham instantly opened a drawer of his desk, and took out a box of Benson and Hedges cigarettes.
"I have my own, thank you," she informed him.
