“Evidently, then, it is her first offense,” put in Constance, wondering at herself.  Strangely, she felt more of sympathy than of anger for the girl.

“You mean the first time she has been caught at it,” corrected the head of the store detectives.

“It is my weakness,” sobbed the girl.  “Sometimes an irresistible impulse to steal comes over me.  I just can’t help it.”

She was sobbing convulsively.  As she talked and listened there seemed to come a complete breakdown.  She wept as though her heart would break.

“Oh,” exclaimed the man, “can it!  Cut out the sob stuff!”

“And yet,” mused Constance half to herself, watching the girl closely, “when one walks through the shops and sees thousands of dollars’ worth of goods lying unprotected on the counters, is it any wonder that some poor woman or girl should be tempted and fall?  There, before her eyes and within her grasp, lies the very article above all others which she so ardently craves.  No one is looking.  The salesgirl is busy with another customer.  The rest is easy.  And then the store detective steps in—­and here she is—­captured.”

The girl had been listening wildly through her tears.  “Oh,” she sobbed, “you don’t understand—­none of you.  I don’t crave anything.  I—­I just—­can’t help it—­and then, afterwards—­I—­I hate the stuff —­and I am so—­afraid.  I hurry home—­and I—­oh, what shall I do—­what shall I do?”

Constance pitied her deeply.  She looked from the wild-eyed, tear-stained face to the miscellaneous pile of material on the table, and the unwinking gaze of the store detectives.  True, the girl had taken a very valuable diamond ring, and from herself.  But the laces, the trinkets, all were abominably cheap, not worth risking anything for.

Constance’s attention was recalled by the man who beckoned her aside to talk to the salesgirl who had waited on her.

“You remember seeing this lady at the counter?” he asked of the girl.  She nodded.  “And that woman in there?” he motioned.  Again the salesgirl nodded.

“Do you remember anything else that happened?” he asked Constance as they faced Kitty Carr and he handed Constance the ring.

Constance looked the detective squarely in the face for a moment.

“I have my ring.  You have the other stuff,” she murmured.  “Besides, there is no record against her.  She doesn’t even look like a professional bad character.  No—­I’ll not appear to press the charge —­I’ll make it as hard as I can before I’ll do it,” she added positively.

The woman, who had overheard, looked her gratitude.  The detectives were preparing to argue.  Constance hardly knew what she was saying, as she hurried on before any one else could speak.

“No,” she added, “but I’ll tell you what I will do.  If you will let her go I will look after her.  Parole her, unofficially, with me.”

Constance drew a card from her case and handed it to the detective.  He read it carefully, and a puzzled look came over his face.  “Charge account—­good customer—­pays promptly,” he muttered under his breath.