The White Glove by Fred M. White — Read

So here was some little clue to the mystery, Madeline thought. She had evidently had an encounter with the lady of the velvet gloves. But how had that remarkable woman found out that Clifford had left London? And why should she want to see him in such a hurry, and how was he to get to London without money? Well, Madeline could see her way as far as that was concerned. She had a little money left from the sale of her two pictures, and the balance of the £500 could be made up before the day was out. If Clifford went to London she would be free to go over to Tunbridge Wells and there dispose of one of the small diamonds. The notes could be put up in a registered envelope and posted to Clifford, as if they come from some anonymous admirer, for his use and benefit. On second thoughts, Madeline decided to send no letter with the notes.

She had worked the matter out in her mind before Clifford came in. He looked uneasy and anxious, and, from the condition of his old tweed suit and heavy boots, he had been across the moor.