Just 'cause--I had pushed that side box till it swung aside on hinges I didn't know about, and there, in a little secret nest, was a pile of those same crisp, crinkly paper things I'd been looking for. 20--40--60--110--160--210--260--310! Three hundred and ten dollars, Mag Monahan. Three hundred and ten, and Nance Olden! "Glory be!" I whispered. "Glory be damned!" I heard behind me. I turned. The bills just leaked out of my hand on to the floor. The Bachelor Beauty had come home, Mag, and nabbed the poor Princess, instead of her catching him napping. He wasn't a beauty either--a big, stout fellow with a black mustache. His hand on my shoulder held me tight, but the look in his eyes behind his glasses held me tighter. I threw out my arms over the desk and hid my face. Caught! Nancy Olden, with her hands dripping, and not a lie in her smart mouth! He picked up the bills I had dropped, counted them and put them in his pocket. Then he unhooked a telephone and lifted the stand from his desk. "Hello! Spring 3100--please. Hello! Chief's office? This is Obermuller, Standard Theater. I want an officer to take charge of a thief I've caught in my apartments here at the Bronsonia. Yes, right on the corner. Hold him till you come? Well--rather!" He put down the 'phone. I pulled the pearl studs out of my pocket. "You might as well take these, too," I said. "So thoughtful of you, seeing that you'd be searched! But I'll take 'em, anyway. You intended them for--Him? You didn't get anything else?" I shook my head as I lay there. "Hum!" It was half a laugh, and half a sneer. I hated him for it, as he sat leaning back on the back legs of his chair, his thumbs in his arm-holes. I felt his eyes--those smart, keen eyes, burning into my miserable head. I thought of the lawyer and the deal he'd give poor Tom, and all at once-- You'd have sniffled yourself, Mag Monahan. There I was--caught. The cop'd be after me in five minutes. With Tom jugged, and me in stripes--it wasn't very jolly, and I lost my nerve. "Ashamed--huh?" he said lightly. I nodded. I was ashamed. "Pity you didn't get ashamed before you broke in here." "What the devil was there to be ashamed of?" The sting in his voice had cured me. I never was a weeper. I sat up, my face blazing, and stared at him. He'd got me to hand over to the cop, but he hadn't got me to sneer at. I saw by the look he gave me, that he hadn't really seen me till then. "Well," he answered, "what the devil is there to be ashamed of now?" "Of being caught--that's what." "Oh!" He tilted back again on his chair and laughed softly. "Then you're not ashamed of your profession?" "Are you of yours?" "Well--there's a slight difference." "Not much, whatever it may be. It's your graft--it's everybody's--to take all he can get, and keep out of jail. That's mine, too." "But you see I keep out of jail." "I see you're not there--yet."