August Wells

Dear correspondent, A curious business. At half past nine a woman presented herself at my door. She gave the name Miss Harlow. She carried a man's leather glove, left-handed, with a tear along the thumb-seam and a thumbprint of something reddish-brown that I shall not call blood until I have tested it, though I confess I suspect it is. She would not say whose glove it was. She would say only that it had been delivered to her, wrapped in brown paper, with no note, at her address in Camden. Consider, if you would: the left hand, the tear on the thumb-seam, the reddish stain, the lack of a note. Four facts. I put a fifth to you: Miss Harlow arrived by cab, not on foot—her boots are dry below the ankle, and today it is raining. What do you make of it? Write back before I call on her at home, I beg you. Morrow has been restless all morning. He dislikes this weather. He also, I note, dislikes the word 'however,' for reasons known only to him. Yours in the work, August Wells