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Stevenson, Burton Egbert, 1872-1962

"The Gloved Hand"


"You see how it is, Mr. Lester," he said.
"Yes," I answered drily, "I see how it is."
I refolded the will, slipped it back into its envelope, restored it to
the drawer, made sure that all the packets were there, too, replaced
the drawer in the safe, closed the door, twirled the knob, swung the
shelves into place in front of it, and finally, my self-control
partially regained, turned back to Silva.
"Well," I said, and my voice sounded very flat, "let us sit down and
talk it over."
He wheeled his chair around to face me and sat down. I looked at him
in silence for a moment. The man was virile, dominant; there was in
his aspect something impressive and compelling. Small wonder this
child of nineteen had found herself unable to stand against him!
"I know what is in your mind," he said, at last. "But, after all, it
was her father's wish. That should weigh with you."
"Her father was mad."
"I deny it. He was very sane. He found the Way, and he has set her
feet upon it."
"What way?" I demanded. "Where does it lead?"
"The Way of life. It leads to peace and happiness."
He uttered the words as with finality; but I shrugged them impatiently
away.


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