As it is, I confess that I have ogled his incoming mail and his outgoing baggage shamelessly, only to be slapped in the face always and everlastingly by that bland 'M.

J.' I've got my revenge, now, though.

To myself I call him 'Mary Jane'-- and his broad-shouldered, brown-bearded six feet of muscular manhood would so like to be called 'Mary Jane'! By the way, Belle, if you ever hear of murder and sudden death in my direction, better set the sleuths on the trail of Arkwright.

Six to one you'll find I called him 'Mary Jane' to his face!" Calderwell was thinking of that letter now, as he sat at a small table in a Paris cafe.

Opposite him was the six feet of muscular manhood, broad shoulders, pointed brown beard, and all--and he had just addressed it, inadvertently, as "Mary Jane." During the brief, sickening moment of silence after the name had left his lips, Calderwell was conscious of a whimsical realization of the lights, music, and laughter all about him.
"Well, I chose as safe a place as I could!" he was thinking.