At the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name.

“McDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which,” was James Williams’s answer.  “But you can bet I’m a burglar; don’t leave that out.  And you might add that it took five of ’em to pluck the Pink.  I’d especially like to have that in the records.”

In an hour came Mrs. James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero’s innocence—­for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile mfg. co.

After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating a copyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the department was capable of, Mrs. Williams rearrested him and swept him into an angle of the station-house.  James Williams regarded her with one eye.  He always said that Donovan closed the other while somebody was holding his good right hand.  Never before had he given her a word of reproach or of reproof.

“If you can explain,” he began rather stiffly, “why you—­”

“Dear,” she interrupted, “listen.  It was an hour’s pain and trial to you.  I did it for her—­I mean the girl who spoke to me on the coach.  I was so happy, Jim—­so happy with you that I didn’t dare to refuse that happiness to another.  Jim, they were married only this morning—­those two; and I wanted him to get away.  While they were struggling with you I saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park.  That’s all of it, dear—­I had to do it.”

Thus does one sister of the plain gold band know another who stands in the enchanted light that shines but once and briefly for each one.  By rice and satin bows does mere man become aware of weddings.  But bride knoweth bride at the glance of an eye.  And between them swiftly passes comfort and meaning in a language that man and widows wot not of.

THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER

Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer.  With a snappy “Good-morning, Pitcher,” Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.

The young lady had been Maxwell’s stenographer for a year.  She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic.  She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour.  She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets.  She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon.  Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion.  In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw.  On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant.  Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.