"Not she--never laid eyes on her before and wouldn't know her again if I was to see her." The proprietor was in a happy mood; not often had he taken in twenty-five dollars so easily. "Well, I hope your lady likes the coat. So-long," and he nodded affably, as Rodgers turned into the alley. There was still five minutes' work to be done on the car and Rodgers spent them in hurrying Sam into completing the job without further waste of time, and it was with a feeling of satisfaction that he laid the coat on the seat and took his place behind the steering wheel. He had to slow up for traffic as he started out of the alley into Pennsylvania Avenue. A hail close at hand caused him to look around and he recognized the proprietor of the second-hand clothes store approaching. "Hey! Just a minute," called the latter, and Rodgers pulled up at the curb and waited for him. "Say, mister, my wife fancies that coat, so if you don't mind I'll return you the twenty dollars," and he held out the money. Rodgers eyed him in astonishment. "I prefer to keep the coat," he said. "Sorry I can't oblige you." "But, see here," the man protested. "I'll give you two extra dollars. Come now, that's fair; twenty-two dollars. Money don't often turn over in your plans quite so fast, does it?" with a faint leer. "Here're the extra dollars." "Thanks, but I don't want them," dryly. "Oh!" The proprietor looked blank. "'Spose we make it twenty-five?" "Nothing doing." "How about thirty dollars?" persisted the man. "Oh, I'm no piker," observing Rodgers' expression. "When I want a thing I am willing to pay for it." "And just why do you want this coat so particularly?" asked Rodgers, his suspicion aroused. "I told you my wife wants that coat." "Well, she can't have it." Rodgers released the clutch and the car shot down the Avenue, leaving the dealer in second-hand clothes standing with mouth agape, gesticulating wildly after him. It was but a short distance to the Bachelor where he had an apartment, and Rodgers paid small regard to traffic regulations until he reached there. He wasted some valuable moments in finding parking space near the building and he was in no amiable frame of mind when he finally hurried through the swing door of the front entrance. The elevator boy was nowhere visible and Rodgers collected his letters from his mail box; then, tucking the red coat under his arm, he went over to the staircase and mounted it two steps at a time until he reached the third floor. As he turned his latch-key and threw open the door of his apartment he heard his name called and whirled around. Ben Potter was walking toward him from the direction of the elevator shaft.