I was absolutely sure of her; but she didn't suspect me. I had been all swaddled in robes and cowls that night, you remember. Of course she'd heard my voice then, but she couldn't have recognized it from anything I'd muttered at Caldon's. I'm one of those mute buyers. So here I was, trailing her down Michigan Boulevard and wondering what in salvation to do.
From a Puritanical point of view, I had one plain duty; for I couldn't feel the slightest doubt that Cleopatra there a few steps in front of me—present alias Miss Wellington of Denver—had never obtained that dangerous twenty in change. If she had just participated in any financial transaction at Field's, I felt that Marshall III might just as well mark himself down twenty dollars or forty (or some higher multiple of twenty) on the total loss page of the day's doings. Unquestionably I should, by all rules of citizenship, hand her over to the traffic officer at the approaching corner and ask him to blow his whistle to call the wagon.
On the other hand, my acquaintance with Cleopatra which now put me in position to suspect her (of course suspect doesn't half say it) had been gained under circumstances which any one would call privileged. The whole fact of
