“Sit down,” countered Mrs. Inche amiably; “don’t be afraid—­I don’t bite.  Now you know who I am, but before you go, I mean to know who you are.”

“Michael Monahan, madam.”  This was the first alliterative combination to pop into his optimistic mind.

“Can that,” retorted the lady serenely—­“solder it up tight, along with the business of pretending to be a cop.  It won’t get you anything.  I’ve a proposition to make to you.”

“But, madam,” he declared with his naif and disarming grin—­“believe me—­my young affections are already engaged.”

“You’re not half the imbecile you make yourself out,” she judged soberly.  “Come—­what’s your name?”

Taking thought, he saw no great danger in being truthful for once.

“P., unfortunately, Sybarite,” he said:  “bookkeeper for Whigham and Wimper—­leather merchants, Frankfort Street.”

“And how did you come by that coat and hat?”

“Borrowed it from a drunken cop in Penfield’s, a little while ago.  They were raiding the place and I kind of wanted to get away.  Strange to say, my disguise didn’t take, and I had to leave by way of the back fences in order to continue uninterrupted enjoyment of the inalienable rights of every American citizen—­life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness.”

“I don’t know why I believe you,” said Mrs. Inche reflectively, when he paused for breath.  “Perhaps it’s your spendthrift way with language.  Do you talk like that when sober?”

“Judge for yourself.”

“All right,” she laughed indulgently:  “I believe everything you say.  Now what’ll you take to do me a service?”

“My services, madam, are yours to command:  my reward—­ah—­your smile.”

“Bunk,” observed the lady elegantly.  “How would a hundred look to you?  Good, eh?”

“You misjudge me,” the little man insisted.  “Money is really no object.”

“Still”—­she frowned in puzzlement—­“I should think a clerk in the leather business—!”

“I’m afraid I’ve misled you.  I should have said that I was a clerk in the leather business until to-day.  Now I happen to be independently wealthy, a clerk no longer.”

“How’s that—­wealthy?”

“Came into a small fortune this evening—­nothing immodest, but ample for one of my simple tastes and modest ambitions.”

“I think,” announced the lady thoughtfully, “that you are one of the slickest young liars I ever listened to.”

“That must be considerable eminence,” considered P. Sybarite with humility.

“On the other hand, you’re unquestionably a perfect little gentleman,” she pursued.  “And anyhow I’m going to take you at your word and trust you.  If you ever change your mind about that hundred, all you’ve got to do is to come back and speak for it....  Do I make you right?  You’re willing to go a bit out of your way to do me a favour to-night?”

“Or any other night.”