"He would believe your letters, any way," said Kelson.

"My letters!" the lady laughed, "You've no letters of mine."

"No, but I know where the correspondence that has passed between you
and the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe is to be found. He has sixty-nine letters
from you all tied up in pink ribbon, locked up in the bottom drawer of
the bureau in his study at the Vicarage. Some of the letters begin
with 'Dearest, duckiest, handsomest Herby'--short for Herbert; and
others, 'Fondest, blondest, darlingest Micky-moo!' Some end with 'A
thousand and one kisses from your loving and ever devoted Francesca,'
and others with 'Love and kisses ad infinitum, ever your loving,
thirsting, adoring one, Toosie!' Nice letters from the wife of a
respectable Nob Hill magnate to a married clergyman!"

The lady walked a trifle unsteadily, and much of her colour was gone.
"I can't understand it," she panted; "somebody has played me false."

"As the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe is on his way to Sacramento, where he has
to remain till to-morrow," Kelson went on pitilessly, "it will be the
easiest thing in the world to get those letters. I have merely to call
at the house and tell his wife."

"And what good will that do you?" the lady asked.

"Revenge! I hate the rich," Kelson said. "I would do anything to
injure them."

"You are a Socialist?"