proved to be quite all right. Yes; I knew that pretty, slender, strong little hand.
She was going out now, after having given to the cashier—who had come up—the information that she thought she had broken her hundred dollars at Field's and got her change there and supplying him with her Chicago address as the Blackstone Hotel.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the coffee-set salesman, "did you make a choice?"
"Oh, shoot along the Queen Anne," I said; and with the word "queen" something caught me.
"What name, sir?" said the salesman.
"Cleopatra," I said, for I had it; and I got under without worry over the impression I was leaving behind me. For now I had placed Miss Wellington of Denver, and I knew why I was familiar with her voice, with her hands, with her figure, and also why her face was a surprise to me. For she was Cleopatra, my ci-devant partner of the dances at the Flamingo Feather where I was ostensibly "Beets", the safe blower in a hired Erasmus get-up, and she was mate to a lightly built Magellanic gent, who sopped up rather too much that evening and yet had proved nimble as any on the getaway.
