“Come down, old sport,” he said pleasantly. “We’ve got you. Back to Sleepytown for yours. It ain’t a bad idea, hidin’ on a Rubberneck, though. I’ll remember that.”

Softly through the megaphone came the advice of the conductor:

“Better step off, sir, and explain. The car must proceed on its tour.”

James Williams belonged among the level heads. With necessary slowness he picked his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front of the car. His wife followed, but she first turned her eyes and saw the escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind a tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away.

Descended to the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile. He was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in Cloverdale about having been mistaken for a burglar. The Rubberneck coach lingered, out of respect for its patrons. What could be a more interesting sight than this?

“My name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,” he said kindly, so that they would not be too greatly mortified. “I have letters here that will show—”

“You’ll come with us, please,” announced the plain-clothes man. “ ‘Pinky’ McGuire’s description fits you like a flannel washed in hot suds. A detective saw you on the Rubberneck up at Central Park and ’phoned down to take you in. Do your explaining at the station-house.”

James Williams’s wife—his bride of two weeks—looked him in the face with a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks, looked him in the face and said:

“Go with ’em quietly, ‘Pinky,’ and maybe it’ll be in your favour.”

And then as the Glaring-at-Gotham car rolled away she turned and threw a kiss—his wife threw a kiss—at someone high up on the seats of the Rubberneck.

“Your girl gives you good advice, McGuire,” said Donovan. “Come on, now.”

And then madness descended upon and occupied James Williams. He pushed his hat far upon the back of his head.

“My wife seems to think I am a burglar,” he said recklessly. “I never heard of her being crazy, therefore I must be. And if I’m crazy, they can’t do anything to me for killing you two fools in my madness.”

Whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and industriously that cops had to be whistled for, and afterwards the reserves, to disperse a few thousand delighted spectators.

At the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name.

“McDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which,” was James Williams’s answer. “But you can bet I’m a burglar; don’t leave that out. And you might add that it took five of ’em to pluck the Pink. I’d especially like to have that in the records.”

In an hour came Mrs. James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor-car and proofs of the hero’s innocence—for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile mfg. co.

After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating a copyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the department was capable of, Mrs. Williams re-arrested him and swept him into an angle of the station-house James Williams regarded her with one eye. He always