“First rate,” I returned, in a whisper, so as not to betray my identity by my voice. It was clear that I was in conversation with a thief--he did not look to my well-trained eyes like an honest man--and I must keep up the deception. “Got the swag?” he asked. I merely tapped my bag for reply. It was nearly dusk and the car lamps had not been lighted. My companion had not yet discovered his mistake. I didn’t feel exactly flattered at being mistaken, even in the half light, for a thief. “How with you?” I asked. “Aint done much since I tapped ‘Remember the poor.’” “Remember the poor!” The words flashed across my mind. Was I on the track of the thief at last? “Got the watch yet?” I asked. “Yes, don’t dare to try to get rid of it. Where is Baggy John, now?” What the deuce was I to say? Just then a man came down the car aisle. I saw at once it was the man whom my companion had really expected to meet. The resemblance between us was remarkable. My companion looked from one to the other and then tried to get away. Not before I had a pair of hand-cuffs encircling his wrists, however. That is how I caught the thief, got my promotion, the reward, and last, but by no means least, my wife. How Was She Killed? “If I ever do it, I’ll do it in that way.” These were the words I accidentally overheard one day, many years ago, as I was walking along the beach at one of our celebrated summer resorts. The person who uttered the above mentioned remark, a young man of about 28 or 30, spoke only half aloud and was evidently unaware that there was anyone within hearing distance. It was not my purpose to play eavesdropper. I was in a thoughtful mood myself, and with my head bowed almost upon my breast I had overtaken the young man and overheard his words. He had been reading a paper-covered novel of the sensational kind. As I passed him I glanced at the title. It was, “How was she killed?” I passed on my way as if I had not heard anything, and the young man turned to his book, in which he was evidently much interested. I had taken a sufficiently good look at the man to enable me to recognize him again. My memory for faces and forms is very good. On my return to the hotel I saw a number of copies of “How Was She Killed?” on sale. Partly out of curiosity I bought one and read it. I was afterward glad I did so.