hat you, saw.
Why, I have the murdered man's pocket-book in this valise at my feet.
What does that look like?"

I colored when I saw the ghost of a smile hovering around the corners
of her mouth. "That is," I finished, "if you care to believe that I am
innocent."

The sustaining chain of her small gold bag gave way just then. She did
not notice it. I picked it up and slid the trinket into my pocket for
safekeeping, where I promptly forgot it. Afterwards I wished I had let
it lie unnoticed on the floor of that dirty little suburban car, and
even now, when I see a woman carelessly dangling a similar feminine
trinket, I shudder involuntarily: there comes back to me the memory of
a girl's puzzled eyes under the brim of a flopping hat, the haunting
suspicion of the sleepless nights that followed.

Just then I was determined that my companion should not stray back to
the wreck, and to that end I was determinedly facetious.

"Do you know that it is Sunday?" she asked suddenly, "and that we are
actually ragged?"

"Never mind that," I retorted. "All Baltimore is divided on Sunday into
three parts, those who rise up and go to church, those who rise up
and read the newspapers, and those who don't rise up. The first are
somewhere between the creed and the sermon, and we need not worry about
the others."

"You treat me like a child," she said almost pettishly. "Don't try so
hard to be cheerful. It--it is almost ghastly."

After that I subsided like a pricked balloon, and the remainder of the
ride was made in silence. The information that she would go to friends
in the city was a shock: it meant an earlier separation than I had
planned for. But my arm was beginning again. In putting her into a cab
I struck it and gritted my teeth with the pain. It was probably for that
reason that I forgot the gold bag.

She leaned forward and held out her hand. "I may not have another chance
to thank you," she said, "and I think I would better not try, anyhow.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am." I muttered something about the
gratitude being mine: owing to the knock I was seeing two cabs, and two
girls were holding out two hands.

"Remember," they were both saying, "you have never met me, Mr. Blakeley.
And--if you ever hear anything about me--that is not--pleasant, I want
you to think the best you can of me. Will you?"

The two girls were one now, with little flashes of white light playing
all around. "I--I'm afraid that I shall think