re highly cultivated persons, and
their house was frequented by a small set of such men and women as
persons of their tastes would think worth knowing. So far as these knew,
Mr. and Mrs. Hardshaw lived happily together; certainly the wife was
devoted to her handsome and accomplished husband and exceedingly proud
of him.

Among their acquaintances were the Barwells--man, wife and two young
children--of Sacramento. Mr. Barwell was a civil and mining engineer,
whose duties took him much from home and frequently to San Francisco. On
these occasions his wife commonly accompanied him and passed much of her
time at the house of her friend, Mrs. Hardshaw, always with her two
children, of whom Mrs. Hardshaw, childless herself, grew fond.
Unluckily, her husband grew equally fond of their mother--a good deal
fonder. Still more unluckily, that attractive lady was less wise than
weak.

At about three o'clock one autumn morning Officer No. 13 of the
Sacramento police saw a man stealthily leaving the rear entrance of a
gentleman's residence and promptly arrested him. The man--who wore a
slouch hat and shaggy overcoat--offered the policeman one hundred, then
five hundred, then one thousand dollars to be released. As he had less
than the first mentioned sum on his person the officer treated his
proposal with virtuous contempt. Before reaching the station the
prisoner agreed to give him a check for ten thousand dollars and remain
ironed in the willows along the river bank until it should be paid. As
this only provoked new derision he would say no more, merely giving an
obviously fictitious name. When he was searched at the station nothing
of value was found on him but a miniature portrait of Mrs. Barwell--the
lady of the house at which he was caught. The case was set with costly
diamonds; and something in the quality of the man's linen sent a pang of
unavailing regret through the severely incorruptible bosom of Officer
No. 13. There was nothing about the prisoner's clothing nor person to
identify him and he was booked for burglary under the name that he had
given, the honorable name of John K. Smith. The K. was an inspiration
upon which, doubtless, he greatly prided himself.

In the mean time the mysterious disappearance of John Hardshaw was
agitating the gossips of Rincon Hill in San Francisco, and was even
mentioned in one of the newspapers. It did not occur to the lady whom
that journal considerately described as his "widow," to lo