And while he was dressed with the comfortable simplicity of a Californian mounted traveler, her inexperienced but feminine eye detected the keynote of his respectability in the carefully-tied bow of his cravat.

The Sierrean throat was apt to be open, free, and unfettered.
"Good-morning, Mrs.Baker," he said, pleasantly, with his hat already in his hand, "I'm Harry Home, of San Francisco." As he spoke his eye swept approvingly over the neat inclosure, the primly-tied papers, and well-kept pigeon-holes; the pot of flowers on her desk; her china-silk mantle, and killing little chip hat and ribbons hanging against the wall; thence to her own pink, flushed face, bright blue eyes, tendriled clinging hair, and then--fell upon the leathern mailbag still lying across the table.

Here it became fixed on the unfortunate wire of the amorous expressman that yet remained hanging from the brass wards of the lock, and he reached his hand toward it.
But little Mrs.Baker was before him, and had seized it in her arms.

She had been too preoccupied and bewildered to resent his first intrusion behind the partition, but this last familiarity with her sacred official property--albeit empty--capped the climax of her wrongs.
"How dare you touch it!" she said indignantly.

"How dare you come in here! Who are you, anyway?
Go outside, at once!" The stranger fell back with an amused, deprecatory gesture, and a long silent laugh.