Many salient points in the career of Wilton lay before me. It's singular how much it may cost to learn the history of one little man. For half the sum that I was to pay for Wilton's record a commonplace intellect should have been able to acquire every important fact in the history of the world. Wilton, whose real name was Muggs, was wanted in Mexico for grand larceny, and very grand larceny at that, for he had absconded twelve years before with twenty thousand dollars belonging to the business in which he had been engaged. They had got their clue from a letter which he had carelessly left in his coat-pocket when he entered a Turkish bath, but of that part of the matter I need say no more. It was quite likely that he was wanted in other places, but this was want enough for my purpose. It was Saturday, and Betsey had gone to Pointview; I was to follow her that evening for the week-end. No fog that day. The sun was shining in clear air. When Wilton came my program had been arranged. It began as soon as he entered my room. The cat was purring when suddenly the dog jumped at her. It was the dog in my voice as I said: “Good morning, you busted philanthropist! Why didn't you tell me at once that your name was Muggs. You might have saved me the expense of employing a dozen detectives to learn what you could have told me in five minutes. As a saint you're a failure. Why didn't you tell me that they wanted you down in Mexico?” The cat was gone--jumped out of the open window, perhaps. I never saw her again. Muggs stood unmasked before me. He was a man now. His face changed color. His right hand went up to his brow, and then, as if wondering what it was there for, began deftly smoothing his hair, while his lower lip came up to the tips of his cropped mustache. His eyelids quivered slightly. The fingers in that telltale hand began to tremble like a flag of distress. In a second, before he had time to recover, I swung again, and very vigorously. “If you're going to save yourself you haven't a minute to lose. The detectives want that reward, and they're after you. They telephoned me not ten minutes ago. I'll do what I can for you, but I make one condition.” “Excuse me,” he said, as he pulled himself together. “I didn't know that you had such a taste for history.” “I love to study the history of philanthropists,” I said. “Yours thrilled me. I couldn't stop till I got to this minute. You're just beginning a new chapter, and I want you to give it a heading right now. Shall it be 'Prison Life' or 'In the Way of Reform'?” Again the man spoke. “As God's my witness, I want to live honest,” said he. “Then I'll try to help you.” I have always thought with admiration of his calmness as he looked down at me with a face that said, “I surrender,” and a tongue that said: “May I use your bath-room for one minute?” “Certainly,” was my answer. He entered the bath-room and closed its door behind him.