left a studio reception, and was standing at the curb waiting for
a taxicab to draw up, when a small boy--a street arab--darted
toward her from the other side of the street, and thrusting into
her hand something small and hard, cried breathlessly as he
slipped away, "It's yours, ma'am; you dropped it." Astonished,
for she had not been conscious of any loss, she looked down at
her treasure trove and found it to be a small medallion which she
sometimes wore on a chain at her belt. But she had not worn it
that day, nor any day for weeks. Then she remembered. She had
worn it a month before to a similar reception at this same
studio. A number of young girls had stood about her admiring it--
she remembered well who they were; the Inseparables, of course,
and to please them she had slipped it from its chain. Then
something had happened,--something which diverted her attention
entirely,--and she had gone home without the medallion; had, in
fact, forgotten it, only to recall its loss now. Placing it in
her bag, she looked hastily about her. A crowd was at her back;
nothing to be distinguished there. But in front, on the opposite
side of the street, stood a club-house, and in one of its windows
she perceived a solitary figure looking out. It was that of Miss
Driscoll's father. He could imagine her conclusion.

In vain he denied all knowledge of the matter. She told him other
stories which had come to her ears of thefts as mysterious,
followed by restorations as peculiar as this one, finishing with,
"It is your daughter, and people are beginning to say so."

And Miss Strange, brooding over these instances, would have said
the same, but for Miss Driscoll's absolute serenity of demeanour
and complete abandonment to love. These seemed incompatible with