Ten minutes later he drifted back to the second counter, smiled cheerfully at the clerk, picked up the basket and started for the door, stopping beside a barrel of dried apples to run his fingers through the contents and to nibble one of the gritty chunks. He was squeezing his way hastily through the crowd, nearing the door, when a hand was laid firmly on his left shoulder. Turning quickly he found himself gazing into the face of a stranger, fairly well dressed and not overly intelligent in appearance. "Is that your basket, sir?" asked the stranger, calmly. "Of course, it is," exclaimed Digby, hastily, a red flush flying to his now guilty cheek, fading away, as the snow goes before the sun, an instant later. Caught! "I think this basket belongs to a lady, sir." "My wife," interjected the culprit. "She was with me and went on to another store. Why, what do you mean!" he suddenly demanded, realising that it was high time to appear injured. "Do you think I'm a thief!" "No, sir; but will you tell me your name--or your wife's name? Merely to satisfy me, you see; I'm a watchman here." "Matthews is my name, sir--and so's my wife's--John P. Matthews. Is that satisfactory?" The man slowly turned over the slip in the basket and read the name. "Are you quite sure that it is your name?" he asked, deliberately, looking keenly at Digby. "Certainly! Do you think I don't know my own name?" demanded Digby with an excellent show of asperity. "Then this is not your basket, sir, and I am sorry to say that you will have to be detained until you can give a satisfactory explanation." Digby's eyes fairly stuck from his head and his face was as white as the proverbial sheet. "Not my--not Mrs. Matthews' basket!" he stammered, clutching the slip in his trembling fingers. His eyes grew blurred with amazement an instant later. He passed his hand before them and when he took it away there was a wild, half insane stare in them. He looked again at the slip and read: "Mrs. Digby Trotter, Voxburgh building." His nerveless arm relinquished the basket to the hand of the stranger and his puzzled eyes sought the floor in a long stare, broken presently by the voice in his ear: "Come along. Step back here with me." Digby shook the man's hand from his arm and, as he turned to follow him, asked hoarsely: "Where is she now?" "Who?" "My wife of course--Mrs. Trotter." "Well, you're a bird!" exclaimed his guardian. "How about Mrs. Matthews?" "Good Heavens, what have I done--I--I--look here, man. It's a mistake--" "No, you don't--mistakes don't go. A man ought to know his own name." Digby saw no one, heard no one but the man beside him as he stumbled along, pleading with his eyes, his mouth, his every expression. He did not observe the lady against whom he roughly jostled, but the lady turned in time to hear him say in piteous accents: "Man, for God's sake, don't be too hasty--; I---"