the tail of his eye on Evan, was sweating with
terror. "Maud, I beg of you--!" he whispered.

It did seem to occur to her then that she had gone too far. She glared
at Evan as if defying him to judge her, and marching up to him said
bluntly: "Who are you?" This woman was magnificent in her insolence if
in nothing else.

Evan coolly met her eye. "I'm the young man who paid the fares," he
said, smiling.

She scowled at him. Clearly she had no humour.

Evan explained further: "I have been engaged to accompany Mr. Deaves on
his walks hereafter."

"Oh, locking the stable door after the horse is stolen," she sneered.
"He needs a keeper." She indicated the typewritten sheets. "Then you
were present at this affair?"

"I was."

"Is this story true?"

"I have not seen it."

She handed him the pages. Evan skimmed over it hastily. Since the
incidents have already been related, the opening paragraph will be
sufficient to convey the style of the whole:

"Our esteemed fellow-citizen, Simeon Deaves, is known as a great dandy
among his friends. He has always refused to divulge the identity of
the creator of the svelte garments that grace his manly form, but
yesterday the secret came out. Not in the fashionable purlieus of
Fifth Avenue or Madison does Mr. Deaves' tailor hang out his sign. No;
it is in Greenwich Street near the Battery where the unwary immigrant
makes his first acquaintance with American business methods, that Mr.
Deaves buys his clothes. He was seen to buy an elegant mustard
coloured suit there yesterday for $4.49. Of course not everybody could
afford this sum, but the goods were worth it. Take it from us,
high-water pants will be all the rage the coming Fall."

And so on. And so on. Evan bit his lip to keep from smiling, and
handed the sheets back. It was easy to understand how the story
affected these people like salt in a wound.

"Is it true?" Mrs. Deaves again demanded of Evan.

"The facts are true so far as I know," he replied. "Of course, the
humour was supplied by the author."

"This young man has offered to help us," began George Deaves.

The remark was unfortunate; Mrs. Deaves exploded again. "I won't have
any bungling amateur detective work here!" she cried. "There's too
much at stake. If the story is true there's only one thing to be done,
pay!" She addressed the old man. "You understand; you have disgraced
us, and you shall pay."

But Simeon Deaves' dander wa