dishes. Down-stairs, in the basement kitchen, however, I found two unattractive looking cold chops, some dry bread and a piece of cake, wrapped in a napkin, and from its surreptitious and generally hang-dog appearance, destined for the coachman in the stable at the rear. Trays there were none—everything but the chairs and tables seemed under lock and key, and there was neither napkin, knife nor fork to be found.
The luncheon was not attractive in appearance, but Hotchkiss ate his cold chops and gnawed at his crusts as though he had been famished, while he told his story.
"I had been there only a few minutes," he said, with a chop in one hand and the cake in the other, "when Bronson rushed out and cut across the street. He's a tall man, Mr. Blakeley, and I had hard work keeping close. It was a relief when he jumped on a passing car, although being well behind, it was a hard run for me to catch him. He had left the lady.
"Once on the car, we simply rode from one end of the line to the other and back again. I suppose he was passing the time, for he looked
