"Well, I'll be--" She extended her hand again, a look of genuine pleasure in her black eyes. "Shake hands again, Prince de Bosky. I--I understand." "And I--I think I understand, Princess," said he, grasping the woman's hand. "I hope you do," said she huskily. "I--I just didn't know how to go about it, that's all. Ever since that day you were in here to see me,--that bitterly cold day,--I've been trying to think of a way to--And so I waited till it turned so hot that you'd know I wasn't trying to do it out of charity--You _do_ understand, don't you, Prince?" "Perfectly," said he, very soberly. "I feel better than I've felt in a good long time," she said, drawing a long breath. "That's the way we all feel sometimes," said he, smiling. "No doubt it's the sun," he added. "We haven't seen much of it lately." "Quit your kiddin'," she cried, donning her mask again and relapsing into the vernacular of the district. He bore the coat in triumph to the work-shop of M. Mirabeau, and loudly called for moth-balls as he mounted the steps. "I jest, good friend," he explained, as the old Frenchman laid aside his tools and started for the shelves containing a vast assortment of boxes and packages. "Time enough for all that. At four o'clock I am due at Spangler's for a rehearsal of the celebrated Royal Hungarian Orchestra, imported at great expense from Budapesth. I leave the treasure in your custody. Au revoir!" He had thrown the coat on the end of the work bench. "You will return for dinner," was M. Mirabeau's stern reminder. "A pot roast tonight, Bramble has announced. We will dine at six, since you must report at seven." "In my little red coat," sang out de Bosky blithely. "Mon dieu!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in dismay, running his fingers over the lining of the coat. "They are already at work. The moths! See! Ah, _le diable!_ They have devoured--" "What!" cried de Bosky, snatching up the coat. "The arm pits and--ah, the seams fall apart! One could thrust his hand into the hole they have made. Too late!" he groaned. "They have ruined it, my friend." De Bosky leaned against the bench, the picture of distress. "What will my friend, the safe-blower, say to this? What will he think of me for--" "Now we know how the estimable Mrs. Jacobs came to have softening of the heart," exploded M. Mirabeau, pulling at his long whiskers. Mr. Bramble, abandoning the shop downstairs, shuffled into the room. "Did I hear you say 'moths'?" he demanded, consternation written all over his face. "For God's sake, don't turn them loose in the house. They'll be into everything--" "What is this?" cried de Bosky, peering intently between the crumbling edges of the rent, which widened hopelessly as he picked at it with nervous fingers. Stitched securely inside the fur at the point of the shoulder was a thin packet made of what at one time must have been part of a rubber rain-coat. The three men stared at it with interest. "Padding," said Mr. Bramble.