Thirty years ago John Hardshaw and his wife lived on Rincon Hill in one of the finest residences of that once aristocratic quarter.  He had once been a physician, but having inherited a considerable estate from his father concerned himself no more about the ailments of his fellow-creatures and found as much work as he cared for in managing his own affairs.  Both he and his wife were highly cultivated persons, and their house was frequented by a small set of such men and women as persons of their tastes would think worth knowing.  So far as these knew, Mr. and Mrs. Hardshaw lived happily together; certainly the wife was devoted to her handsome and accomplished husband and exceedingly proud of him.

Among their acquaintances were the Barwells—­man, wife and two young children—­of Sacramento.  Mr. Barwell was a civil and mining engineer, whose duties took him much from home and frequently to San Francisco.  On these occasions his wife commonly accompanied him and passed much of her time at the house of her friend, Mrs. Hardshaw, always with her two children, of whom Mrs. Hardshaw, childless herself, grew fond.  Unluckily, her husband grew equally fond of their mother—­a good deal fonder.  Still more unluckily, that attractive lady was less wise than weak.

At about three o’clock one autumn morning Officer No. 13 of the Sacramento police saw a man stealthily leaving the rear entrance of a gentleman’s residence and promptly arrested him.  The man—­who wore a slouch hat and shaggy overcoat—­offered the policeman one hundred, then five hundred, then one thousand dollars to be released.  As he had less than the first mentioned sum on his person the officer treated his proposal with virtuous contempt.  Before reaching the station the prisoner agreed to give him a check for ten thousand dollars and remain ironed in the willows along the river bank until it should be paid.  As this only provoked new derision he would say no more, merely giving an obviously fictitious name.  When he was searched at the station nothing of value was found on him but a miniature portrait of Mrs. Barwell—­the lady of the house at which he was caught.  The case was set with costly diamonds; and something in the quality of the man’s linen sent a pang of unavailing regret through the severely incorruptible bosom of Officer No. 13.  There was nothing about the prisoner’s clothing nor person to identify him and he was booked for burglary under the name that he had given, the honorable name of John K. Smith.  The K. was an inspiration upon which, doubtless, he greatly prided himself.

In the mean time the mysterious disappearance of John Hardshaw was agitating the gossips of Rincon Hill in San Francisco, and was even mentioned in one of the newspapers.  It did not occur to the lady whom that journal considerately described as his “widow,” to look for him in the city prison at Sacramento—­a town which he was not known ever to have visited.  As John K. Smith he was arraigned and, waiving examination, committed for trial.