"Isn't any--oh!"-- as Mrs.Matthews appeared in the back doorway.

"A package of cigarettes, please." She stared at him, a little frightened, her eyes red and swollen with recent crying.
"How--how did you get in here ?" she asked tremendously.
"I beg your pardon ?" inquired Jimmie Dale, in polite surprise.
"I--I locked the door--I'm sure I did," she said, more to herself than to Jimmie Dale, and hurried across the floor to the door as she spoke.
Jimmie Dale, still politely curious, turned to watch her.

For a moment bewilderment and a puzzled look were in her face--and then a sort of surprised relief.
"I must have turned the key in the lock without shutting the door tight," she explained, "for I knew I turned the key." Jimmie Dale bent forward to examine the lock--and nodded.
"Yes," he agreed, with a smile.

"I should say so." Then, gravely courteous: "I'm sorry to have intruded." "It is nothing," she answered; and, evidently anxious to be rid of him, moved quickly around behind the counter.

"What kind of cigarettes do you want ?" "Egyptians--any kind," said Jimmie Dale, laying a bill on the counter.
He pocketed the cigarettes and his change, and turned to the door.
"Good-evening," he said pleasantly--and went out.
Jimmie Dale smiled a little curiously, a little tolerantly.