"Yes, sir. My name is Chittenden. Our hats got mixed up at Martin's this evening; my fault, as usual. I am always doing something absurd, my memory is so bad. When I discovered my mistake I was calling on the family of a client with whom I had spent most of the afternoon. I missed some valuable papers, legal documents. I believed as usual that I had forgotten to take them with me. They were nowhere to be found at the house. My client has a very mischievous son, and it seems that he stuffed the papers behind the inside band of my hat. With them there was a letter. I have had two very great scares. A great deal of trouble would ensue if the papers were lost. I just telephoned that I had located the hat." He laughed pleasantly.
Good heavens! here was a howdy-do.
"My dear Mr. Chittenden, there has been a great confusion," I faltered. "I had your hat, but—but you have come too late."
"Too late?" he roared, or I should say, to be exact, shouted.
"Yes, sir."
"What have you done with it?"
"Not five minutes ago I gave it to a Frenchman, who seemed to recognize it as his. It was the Frenchman, if you will remember, who sat near your table in the café."
"And this hat isn't yours, then?"—helplessly.
"This" was a flat-brimmed hat of the Paris boulevards, the father of all stovepipe hats, dear to the Frenchman's heart.
"Candidly, now," said I with a bit of excusable impatience, "do I look like a man who would wear a hat like that?"