Battery Street with a daintily shod foot, waiting to cross. "Mrs.
Belton, I think," he said. The lady eyed him coldly.

"Well!" she said, "what do you want? Who are you?"

"My name can scarcely matter to you," Kelson responded, "though my
business may. I have been engaged to watch you, and am fully posted as
to your meetings and correspondence with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe."

"I don't understand you," the lady said, her cheeks flaming. "You have
made a mistake--a very serious mistake for you."

For a moment Kelson's heart failed. He was still a clerk, with all the
humility of an office stool and shining trousers' seat thick on him,
whilst she was a _grande dame_ accustomed to the bows and scrapes of
employers as well as employed.

Several people passed by and stared at him--as he thought--suspiciously,
and he felt that this was the most critical time in his life, and
unless he pulled through, smartly in fact, he would be done once and
for all. If he didn't make haste, too, the woman would undoubtedly
call a policeman. It was this thought as well as--though, perhaps,
hardly as much as--the look of her that stimulated Kelson to action.
He hated behaving badly to women; but was this thing, dressed in a
skirt that fitted like a glove and showed up every detail of her
figure--this thing with the paint on her cheeks, and eyebrows, and
lips--artistically done, perhaps, but done all the same--this thing
all loaded with jewellery and buttons--this thing--a woman! No! She
was not--she was only a millionaire's plaything--brainless,
heartless--a hobby that cost thousands, whilst countless men such as