"Is that your basket, sir?" asked the stranger, calmly.
"Of course, it is," exclaimed Digby, hastily, a red flush flying to his now guilty cheek, fading away, as the snow goes before the sun, an instant later. Caught!
"I think this basket belongs to a lady, sir."
"My wife," interjected the culprit. "She was with me and went on to another store. Why, what do you mean!" he suddenly demanded, realising that it was high time to appear injured. "Do you think I'm a thief!"
"No, sir; but will you tell me your name—or your wife's name? Merely to satisfy me, you see; I'm a watchman here."
"Matthews is my name, sir—and so's my wife's—John P. Matthews. Is that satisfactory?"
The man slowly turned over the slip in the basket and read the name.
"Are you quite sure that it is your name?" he asked, deliberately, looking keenly at Digby.
"Certainly! Do you think I don't know my own name?" demanded Digby with an excellent show of asperity.
"Then this is not your basket, sir, and I am sorry to say that you will have to be detained until you can give a satisfactory explanation."