“What?”
“Something else you have stolen.”
“I haven’t,” she denied.
“You have,” I affirmed.
“You mean the novel?” she asked; “because I sent it in to 97 to-night.”
“I don’t mean the novel.”
“I can’t think of anything more but those pieces of petrified wood, and those you gave me,” she said demurely. “I am sure that whatever else I have of yours you have given me without even my asking, and if you want it back you’ve only got to say so.”
“I suppose that would be my very best course,” I groaned.
“I hate people who force a present on one,” she continued, “and then, just as one begins to like it, want it back.”
Before I could speak, she asked hurriedly, “How often do you come to Chicago?”