"Well, then, I got the feller to it—right hand. I found it on the wharf at the lake, in front of the bungalow. Seeing that there’s ten thousand dollars reward offered, I thought I’d be a blowin’ in the price of a call to tell you, though it’s so ungrateful ye are for the news I’m sorry I done it. But I’ll not bother you no more, for it’s in to the District Attorney I’ll be goin’ with the evidence." That was what he did, that very afternoon. By the next day everybody in Longwood knew how Pat Donahue had found Sylvia Hesketh’s missing glove on the wharf just in front of the Reddy bungalow. There was a person who didn’t close an eye that night, and I guess you know what her name was. Gee, those were awful days that followed! When I think of them now I can feel a sort of sinking come back on me and my face gets stiff like it was made of leather and couldn’t limber up for a smile. Each morning I’d get up scared sick of what I was going to hear that day, and each evening I’d go to bed filled with a darkness as black as the night outside. I couldn’t believe it and yet—well, I’ll tell you and you can judge for yourself. The police went out to Hochalaga and made a thorough examination of the house and its surroundings. The bungalow stood at one end of the lake right on the shore, with a little wharf jutting out in front of it into the water. The door opened into a big living-room, furnished very pretty and comfortable with green madras curtains at the windows, a green art rug on the floor, and wicker chairs with green denim cushions. At one side was a big brick fireplace with a copper kettle hanging on a crane and over in a corner was a desk with a telephone on it. Along the walls were bookcases full of books and in the center was a table with chairs drawn up at either side of it. The police noticed right off that it didn’t have the damp, musty feel of a place shut up through a long spell of rain. The air was cold and dry and they could scent the odor of wood fires and a slight faint smell of cigar smoke. Then they saw that the fireplace was piled high with ashes and that several cigarette ends were scattered on the hearth. On the center table was a shaded lamp and near it a match box with burnt matches strewn round on the floor. The desk drawer was open and the papers inside all tossed and littered about as if someone had gone through them in a hurry. Two armchairs stood on either side of the table and another was in front of the fireplace. All over the floor were earth stains as if muddy feet had been walking about. There were no signs that the place had been broken into—windows and doors were locked and the locks in good condition. Outside against the wall of the house they found a pile of broken china, what seemed to be the remains of a tea set. It was not till the search was nearly ended that one of the men, studying the grass along the roadside for traces of footprints, came on a gasoline drum hidden among the bushes.