The good pot-hunter never really hunts--he lures the game to the decoy--and because she had been years upon the trail she at once corrected her first mistake and sent a letter as bait--a tender missive full of regrets and endearing terms; such a letter as only a woman could write--a letter like a silken bandage to blind the eyes and shut out the real view of things. It came to his hand as she had expected it would, and when the time arrived he hurried to the rendezvous to heal the breach and once more place himself on friendly terms with his income. There are enough facts in this story to carry it, but it is not an absolutely correct recital. There are reasons why it should be changed and so I have changed it, but not enough to destroy its identity. On that street at night, with people hurrying to and fro, they came face to face, but before he could speak to her, the other man stepped out and seized him. “Come with me, I want you,” he said roughly, and he wheeled him around with a deft movement. There was no other word spoken and only for an instant was there a brief struggle. All the while the woman had been fumbling at her bosom before she drew out a pistol. Her time had arrived. She levelled it at the retreating back of the held man and pulled the trigger. A child couldn’t have missed a shot like that, and the bullet bored into his back, throwing him forward slightly. It had been her intention to shoot but once and make that one shot do the work, but when she saw that he was hit the lust of blood came on her and she pulled the trigger twice more, each bullet finding its mark, before a policeman ran up and threw one arm around her neck and with the free hand took hold of the still smoking weapon. It was the old trick of the force taught to probationers before they are considered fit to go forth and guard the public interests. While her victim was slipping slowly downward to the pavement she screamed, with as clear an intonation as if she wanted to be sure it would be a matter of record: “And now he will never beat me again.” Half a dozen men carried the limp dead body into a store and she was taken there, too, and such was her ferocity that she tried to kick the corpse of her quarry. “He beat me, he beat me,” she shouted, “and now he will never beat me again. If I had not killed him he would have killed me.” [Illustration: Disguised as a sailor boy she shipped on one of Uncle Sam’s ships] THE THROWBACK One of the greatest schools in the world is Little Old New York, where anyone can learn anything and anyone can do anything--or do anybody if they should happen to have but a modicum of brains and native shrewdness. It is the haunt as well as the home of the crook; the respectable trickster; the lady who works and the lady who doesn’t. The amalgamation of many races and many creeds has tended to produce cleverness and wit to a high degree.