Several people passed by and stared at him--as he thought--suspiciously, and he felt that this was the most critical time in his life, and unless he pulled through, smartly in fact, he would be done once and for all. If he didn't make haste, too, the woman would undoubtedly call a policeman. It was this thought as well as--though, perhaps, hardly as much as--the look of her that stimulated Kelson to action. He hated behaving badly to women; but was this thing, dressed in a skirt that fitted like a glove and showed up every detail of her figure--this thing with the paint on her cheeks, and eyebrows, and lips--artistically done, perhaps, but done all the same--this thing all loaded with jewellery and buttons--this thing--a woman! No! She was not--she was only a millionaire's plaything--brainless, heartless--a hobby that cost thousands, whilst countless men such as he--starved. He detested--abominated such luxuries! And thus nerved he retorted, borrowing some of her imperiousness-- "Do you deny, madam, that for the past two hours you've been sitting on the sofa of the end room of the third floor of No. 216, Market Street, flirting with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe, whom you call 'Mickey-moo'; that you gave him a photo you had taken at Bell's Studio in Clay Street, specially for him; that you gave him five greenbacks to the value of one hundred and fifty dollars, and that you've planned a moonlight promenade with him to-morrow, when your husband will be in Denver?" "Don't talk so loud," the lady said in a low voice. "Walk along with me a little and then we shan't be noticed. I see you do know a good deal--how, I can't imagine, unless you were hidden somewhere in the room. Who has employed you to watch me?" "That, madam, I can't say," Kelson truthfully responded. "And I can't think," the lady said, "unless it is some woman enemy. But, after all, you can't do much since you hold no proofs--your word alone will count for nothing." "Ah, but I have strong corroborative evidence," Kelson retorted. "I have the testimony of at least two other people who know quite as much as I do." "Adventurers like yourself," the lady sneered. "My husband would neither believe you nor your friends." "He would believe your letters, any way," said Kelson. "My letters!" the lady laughed, "You've no letters of mine." "No, but I know where the correspondence that has passed between you and the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe is to be found. He has sixty-nine letters from you all tied up in pink ribbon, locked up in the bottom drawer of the bureau in his study at the Vicarage. Some of the letters begin with 'Dearest, duckiest, handsomest Herby'--short for Herbert; and others, 'Fondest, blondest, darlingest Micky-moo!' Some end with 'A thousand and one kisses from your loving and ever devoted Francesca,' and others with 'Love and kisses ad infinitum, ever your loving, thirsting, adoring one, Toosie!' Nice letters from the wife of a respectable Nob Hill magnate to a married clergyman!"