I was having tea at an A.B.C. shop one afternoon when the waitress banged down my cup and splashed some of its contents over my spats. I began to remonstrate angrily, and found myself looking into a pair of black indomitable eyes--battle, murder, and sudden-death eyes. So I laughed it off and began watching her as she went from table to table. She was tall and powerfully built, and her face, I was convinced, was that sort which compels men--for some queer reason which has always been a mystery to me--to behave in fatuous, unexpected, and erratic ways. I could see by the expression on it that she was furiously discontented and in the mood to do something drastic and dangerous to improve her lot--in the mood to exploit male mugs, I diagnosed. I returned to this shop the next day and had a few words with her. But those few words on my part were very carefully chosen, and she agreed to dine with me that night. She was in the mood I had guessed--prepared to slip a double dose of strychnine into every cup of tea, coffee, or bovril in the establishment. She passionately desired pretty clothes, ease, and power. She expressed utter contempt for every member of my sex. I believed her when she said she was a virgin. Very gently and delicately I began to explain my means of livelihood, and suggested she should come into partnership. This delicacy I found was quite unnecessary, for she agreed with enthusiasm, and like a true enthusiast expressed herself ready to begin work at once. We started to live together the next day--quite platonically, I may say. I spent £200 on a trousseau for her and carefully instructed her in the technique of her business. She was a wonderfully apt pupil and “quick study.” Within a week she had a wealthy married member of the Stock Exchange neatly on the hook. We had agreed that she should retain 75% of any small sums and the value of any presents she received, and when I say that my 25% represented £84 in five months, the generosity of this expert in American Rails cannot be questioned. But then he began to get a little frightened and rather bored, and he gave Charity to understand that she was about to have a more amenable successor. The critical moment! Now blackmail was barred, so Charity merely rang him up at his home and his office about ten times a day, and he found her waiting for him weeping bitterly every time he entered and left the Exchange, much to his chagrin and the amusement of the man at the door and his fellow-members. There is no law against ringing up business men at home or at the office, or exhibiting all the symptoms of a broken heart in Threadneedle Street, however much susceptible stockbrokers may regret the fact. Charity acted beautifully, and, I believe, aroused genuine sympathy in the breast of this speculator’s solicitor as he handed her a cheque for £2,000, which she and I divided equally as per contract. And she was brilliantly still a virgin!