He has sixty-nine letters
from you all tied up in pink ribbon, locked up in the bottom drawer of
the bureau in his study at the Vicarage. Some of the letters begin
with 'Dearest, duckiest, handsomest Herby'--short for Herbert; and
others, 'Fondest, blondest, darlingest Micky-moo!' Some end with 'A
thousand and one kisses from your loving and ever devoted Francesca,'
and others with 'Love and kisses ad infinitum, ever your loving,
thirsting, adoring one, Toosie!' Nice letters from the wife of a
respectable Nob Hill magnate to a married clergyman!" The lady walked a trifle unsteadily, and much of her colour was gone. "I can't understand it," she panted; "somebody has played me false." "As the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe is on his way to Sacramento, where he has
to remain till to-morrow," Kelson went on pitilessly, "it will be the
easiest thing in the world to get those letters. I have merely to call
at the house and tell his wife." "And what good will that do you?" the lady asked. "Revenge! I hate the rich," Kelson said. "I would do anything to
injure them." "You are a Socialist?" "An Anarchist! But come, you see I know all about you and that I have
you completely in my power. If once either your husband or Mrs.
Calthorpe gets hold of those letters--you and your lover would have a
very unpleasant time of it." "You're a devil!" "Maybe I am--at all events I'm talking to one. But that's neither here
nor there. I want money. Give me a thousand dollars and you'll never
hear from me again." "Blackmail! I could have you arrested!" "Yes, and I would tell the court the whole history of your intrigues! That wouldn't help you,"--and Kelson laughed. "Could I count on you not molesting me again if I were to pay you?" the lady said mockingly. "You could." "Do you ever speak the truth?" "You needn't judge every one by your own standard of morality--the
standard set up by the millionaire's wife," Kelson said. "I swear that
if you pay me a thousand dollars I will never trouble you again." The lady grew thoughtful, and for some minutes neither of them spoke. Then she suddenly jerked out: "I think, after all, I'll accept your
proposal. Wait outside here and you shall have what you want within an
hour." "Not good enough," Kelson said, "I prefer to come with you to your
house and wait there." The lady protested, and Kelson consented to wait in the street outside
her house, where, eventually, she delivered the money into his hands. "I've kept my word," she said, "and if you're half a man you'll keep
yours." Kelson reassured her, and more than pleased with himself, made for the
hotel, where the three of them were now stopping. This was merely a beginning. Before the day was out he had secured two
more victims. No woman whose character was not without blemish was
safe from him--his wonderful newly acquired gift enabling him to
detect any vice, no matter how snugly hidden. And this wonderful power
of discernment brought with it an expression of mystery and
penetration which, by enhancing the effect of the power, made the
application of it comparatively easy. Kelson had only to glide after
his victim, and with his eyes fixed searchingly on her, to say,
"Madam, may I have a word with you?" --and the battle was more than
half won--the women were too fascinated to think of resistance. For example, shortly after his initial adventure, he saw a very
smartly dressed woman in Van Ness Avenue peep about furtively, and
then stop and speak to a little child, who was walking with its nurse. Divination at once told him everything--the lady was the mother of the
child, but its father was not her legitimate husband, W.S. Hobson, the
millionaire mine owner. When Kelson courteously informed her he was in possession of her
secret--a secret she had felt positively certain only one other person
knew, she went the colour of her pea-green sunshade and attempted to
remonstrate. But Kelson's appearance, no less than his marvellous
knowledge of her life, and character dumbfounded her--she was simply
paralysed into admission; and before he left her, Kelson had added
another thousand dollars to his hoard. That evening, close to the Academy of Science in Market Street, he saw
a lady get out of a taxi and quickly enter a pawnbroker's. Her whole
life at once rose up before him. She was Ella Crockford, the wife of
the Californian Street Sugar King, and, unknown to her husband, she
spent her afternoons at a gambling saloon in Kearney Street, where she
ran through thousands. She was now about to pledge her husband's latest present to her--a
diamond tiara, one of the most notable pieces of jewellery in the
country--in the hope that she would soon win back sufficient money at
cards to redeem it. Kelson stopped her as she came out, and in a marvellously few words,
proved to her that he knew everything. Her amazement was beyond
description. "You must be a magician," she said, "because I'm certain no one saw me
take my jewel-case out of the drawer--no one was in the room! And as I
put it in my muff immediately, no one could have seen it as I left the
house. Besides, I never told a soul I intended pawning it, so how is
it possible you could know--and be able to repeat the whole of the
conversation I had with Walter Le-Grand, to whom I lost so heavily
last night? Tell me, how do you know all this?" But Kelson would tell her nothing--nothing beyond her own sins and
misfortunes. "I have nothing to give you," she told him. "I dare not ask my husband
for more money." "What, nothing!" Kelson replied, "When the pawnbroker has just
advanced you fifty thousand dollars. You call that nothing? Be pleased
to give me one thousand, and congratulate yourself that I do not ask
for all your 'nothing.'" And as neither tears nor prayers had any
effect, she was obliged to pay him the sum he asked. Flushed and excited with victory, and thinking, perhaps, that he had
done enough for one day, Kelson took his spoils to a bank near the
Palace Hotel, and for the first time in his career opened a banking
account. As he was leaving the building he ran into Hamar, bent on a
similar errand. The two gleefully compared notes. "I thought," Hamar said, "my turn would never come, and that I must
have done something to get out of favour with the Unknown; but as I
was sitting in the Pig and Whistle Saloon in Corn Street drinking a
lager, I suddenly felt a peculiar throbbing sensation run up my left
leg into my left hand, and the floor seemed to open up, and I saw deep
below me, in a black pit, a skeleton clutching hold of a linen bag,
full of coins. I could see the gold quite distinctly--Spanish doubles,
none newer than the eighteenth century. I knew then that the Unknown
had not forgotten me. 'Look here, boss,' I said to old man Moss--the
proprietor, you know--'You're a bit of a juggins to go on working with
so much money under here,'--and I pointed to the floor. "'I'm surprised at you, Hamar,' Moss said, cocking an eye at me, 'and
lager, too!' "'No, old man!'