"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—!"