pompous-looking individual, with the circumference and watch-chain of the
successful merchant, sitting alone in a first-class carriage on the
suburban up-line from Wallingford. I always travel from Wallingford, as it
is the one station on the line at which you are not required to show a
ticket on entry. Accordingly I entered the old gentleman's carriage, took
his ticket, and offered him a cigarette, which he accepted. I then opened
the conversation.

"I wonder you wear your watch-chain so prominently," I remarked,
"especially during the present vogue of crime--so tempting, you know."

"Ah!" he said, "so you may think; but, being a bit of a criminologist, I
have arranged that as a little trap. It is my belief that the pickpocket,
foiled in one particular, never attempts to rob his victim in any other
way. Now this chain cost me precisely ninepence. It is weighted at each end
with a piece of lead, which gives an appearance of genuineness to the
watch-pocket. I am heavily armed, in case he should attempt violence."

It was here that I removed his pocket-book and slipped it into my
great-coat. Not daring to examine it openly, I fingered it cautiously, and
felt the stiff softness of bank-notes. I was so carried away with pleasure
that I was quite surprised to hear his voice returning from a distance.

"As for my ticket," he continued, "that is a single from Wallingford to the
next station, Sadlington; it is two years old. My season I keep inside the
lining of my hat."

It was here that I returned the ticket to his pocket. After all, I
reflected, I could pay at the other end with a very small portion of the
contents of the pocket-book, which I reckoned must contain at least