“I began the morning,” he commenced, “by accosting a very fashionably dressed lady coming out of Bushwell’s Store in Commercial Street.  Divination at once told me she was the popular widow of J.K.  Bater, the Biscuit King of Nob Hill, and that she was carrying in her big seal-skin muff a gold hatpin mounted with an emerald butterfly, a silver-backed hair brush, a blue enamelled scent bottle, and a porcelain jar, all of which she had slyly ‘nicked,’ when no one was looking.

“I stepped up to her, and politely raising my hat said, ’Good morning, Mrs. Bater.  I’ve a message for you.’

“‘I don’t know you,’ she said eyeing me very doubtfully, ’who are you?’

“‘Forgotten!’ I said tragically, ’and I had flattered myself it would be otherwise.  Still I must try and survive.  I wanted to ask you a favour, Mrs. Bater.’

“‘A favour!’ she exclaimed nervously, ’what is it?  You are really a very extraordinary individual.’

“’I was only going to ask if I might examine the contents of your muff?  I think you have certain articles in it that have not been paid for—­and I believe I am right in saying this is by no means the first time such a thing has happened.’

“She turned so pale I thought she was going to faint.  ’Why, whatever do you mean,’ she stammered, ’I’ve nothing that does not belong to me.’

“‘Opinions differ on that score, Mrs. Bater,’ I replied, ’you have a pin, a hair brush, a scent bottle and a jar,’ and I described them each minutely, ’whilst in your house you have on your dressing-table a silver-backed clothes brush, a silver manicure set you kleptomaniad—­if you prefer to call it so—­from Deacon’s in Sacramento Street; a tortoiseshell manicure set, and an ivory card case you obtained in the same manner from Varter’s in Market Street; a set of silver buttons, a glove stretcher, and a mauve pin-cushion—­you likewise helped yourself to—­from Selter’s in Kearney Street; but I might go on detailing them to you till further orders, for your house is literally crammed with them.  You have done very well, Mrs. Bater, with the San Francisco storekeepers.’

“‘Good God, man, what are you?’ she gasped.  ’You seem to read into the innermost recesses of my soul, and to know everything.’

“‘You are right, madam,’ I said, trying to appear very stern and almost failing, she was so pretty.  By Jove! you fellows, I wonder I didn’t kiss her; she had such fine eyes, my favourite nose, a ripping mouth and—­”

“Oh! go on! go on with your story.  Never mind her looks,” Curtis interrupted, “I’ve got a touch of indigestion.”

“As I was saying,” Kelson went on complacently, “I could have kissed her and I felt downright mean for upsetting her so.

“‘Now you have found me out,’ she said, ’what do you intend doing?  Show me up in there?’ and she pointed shudderingly at the store.

“‘No,’ I said, ’not if you are sensible and come to terms.  I will agreeto say nothing about either this or any of your other—­ahem!—­ thefts—­if you let me escort you home, and write me out a cheque for a thousand dollars!’