"Quite unnecessary, Smithson," Gilder returned, with asperity.
"You know my views on the subject of property. Tell McCracken to
have the thief arrested."

Smithson cleared his throat doubtfully, and in his stress of
feeling he even relaxed a trifle that majestical erectness of
carriage that had made him so valuable as a floor-walker.

"She's not exactly a--er--a thief," he ventured.

"You are trifling, Smithson," the owner of the store exclaimed,
in high exasperation. "Not a thief! And you caught her with a
hundred dollars worth of laces that she hadn't bought. Not a
thief! What in heaven's name do you call her, then?"

"A kleptomaniac," Smithson explained, retaining his manner of
mild insistence. "You see, sir, it's this way. The lady happens
to be the wife of J. W. Gaskell, the banker, you know."

Yes, Gilder did know. The mention of the name was like a spell
in the effect it wrought on the attitude of the irritated owner
of the store. Instantly, his expression changed. While before
his features had been set grimly, while his eyes had flashed
wrathfully, there was now only annoyance over an event markedly
unfortunate.

"How extremely awkward!" he cried; and there was a very real
concern in his voice. He regarded Smithson kindly, whereat that
rather puling gentleman once again assumed his martial bearing.