The Offender

By Henry C. Rowland

NGLISH? No, I'm American. Look like a gentleman? My boy, a crook should always look like a gentleman, if he can manage to! It was easy for me because my father's family was about the best in the United States, barring only, perhaps, my mother's. His breed was pure English and hers Dutch; you'll find both names in the school histories; both families had signers of the Declaration. Yes, sir, my mother and father were thoroughbreds, all right. As for me, I spent the first six years of my life in a pretty little cottage down Boston way, and about the only person I saw was my old nursery governess, Ma'm'selle Durand, or Tante Fi-Fi, as I called her. Then, as far as I could make out, my father lost his fortune and his nerve at the same time, and they found him in his library—dead. That settled my mother, and a little later Tante Fi-Fi faded away, and I found myself bawling my lungs open in the state asylum for orphans.

Want to hear my story? Say, what are you? Reporter? Story-writer, hey? Well, I don't mind. Thanks. I ain't smoked a good cigar since I landed here. Glad it won't be for long then. Aux bat' d'Af! Understand “apache” French?

Well, to get back to the orphan-asylum. Young as I was, I couldn't stand it very long, so one hot day in July I ambled out, slipped down to a pond that was near by, hid my clothes under some stones, and splashed around. Then I came out cryin' and went up naked to a farmhouse and told the folks that the other boys had swiped my clothes and I was due home three hours ago. They laughed at first; then a motherly woman went into the house and fetched me out some old duds one of her brood had outgrown. She said I needn't bother to bring 'em back, they weren't worth it. They were worth a lot to me, because, you see, they represented my whole capital for a start in life on my own.

Well, I drifted around for a few years, doing the things that most homeless kids do, I suppose, and finally I got a billet as cabin-boy on a yacht. That led to steward, and then the family took me into their town house as butler. It was a low-grade, flash crowd with barrels of money and all as crooked as a switch-back railway, men and women both, so that one fine night when a second-story worker handed me a proposition for opening the back door I said, “All right, matey, on one condition—that you share up even and then teach me the trade!”

That was how I started my professional career. Before that I'd only been an amateur, like a good many butlers and chauffeurs and the like. Ever feel any compunctions? Nary one! There are two emotions that never touched me; one is scruple and the other fear. Good workers go down under both sometimes, and if I had been with real swell people at the start it might have been different. But where the boss of the house buncoes his guests at bridge and brags of it afterward to his wife, before the butler, there ain't much of an example set to the service. More than that, everybody was always saying to me, just as you did a little while ago, “You look like a gentleman.” And I did, and behaved a darn sight more like one than the people I waited on. The result was that I got to thinking of myself as a man that wasn't getting what by rights belonged to him, and I went to work to correct that with all the natural intelligence I had in me, which was considerable.

For some years I was mighty successful. Plain burglary was my specialty because I liked the excitement of it; but I was handy at the side lines, too, and when it came to con games or even such youthful pranks as nickin' a pocketbook or wrist-bag I was right on the job, and here my looks helped me a lot. Once or twice I've bluffed out a sucker that as good as saw me take the goods. I know how to dress and how to walk into a big ballroom and how to order a dinner in a swell restaurant and how to talk to a lady in the deck chair next to mine. Yes, my son, I have seen life.

The first time I got pinched, and I tell it to my shame, was right here in Paris, and all along of a piece of sheer, light-hearted foolishness. I'd come over from London with a runnin'-mate, just for a spree. We were both flush and doing the swell act. It was the week of the Grand Prix de Steeplechase out at Auteuil, and we went to the races, not on business, mind you, but just for fun. While we were standin' by the payin'-booth watchin' the types cash in, along comes a big, whiskered Russian with a whole fistful of winning tickets. The guy handed him out a big wad of bank-notes, which Mr. Russian crams into the side pocket of his trousers, then saunters over to the bettin'-booths.

“That looks appetizin',” says I to my pal. “What d'ye want to bet I can't take that away from Mr. Bear?”

“Lay ye a five-pun' note,” says he.

“Done,” says I.

The bettin' was pretty brisk. You know how it is out there—a lot of different windows for different amounts and the bettors filing up between the rails. The Russian goes to the one-hundred-frank slip, and I shove in beside him. There was a crowd ahead of us, so for the moment he left his money where it was, waitin' to get to the window before haulin' it out. He had on a long, light overcoat with slash pockets, and watching my chance I slipped my hand through and felt for the wad. I peeled one or two bills off, and was just cuddlin' the whole bunch, winkin' over my shoulder at Jeff, when clip! something closed on my wrist like a bear-trap! Body o' me! You'd never ha' thought to find such strength in a human fist! His fingers closed around my wrist like a vise, so that I couldn't even begin to straighten 'em out. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but his nibs was Prince Kharkoff, and he was in the habit of amusin' his friends by such little parlor stunts as bending up five-franc pieces and tearing two-sou pieces apart!

“'Umph!” says he, blowin' a mouthful of cigar-smoke in my face, and I could see his big white teeth shining through his beard.

Everybody looked around, and the gendarme who was on duty at the booths steps up.

Well, there wasn't much for me to say. The cop pulled back the overcoat, and the Russian lugged out my fist, still full of bills! I couldn't open it, mind you! Jeff was laughing fit to bust, but it took three cops to keep the crowd from maulin' me. “À l'eau!” says they; “à l'eau!” Meanin', I take it, to first give me a bath in the water-jump. That's the way with Frenchies; they love a crook, as long as he doesn't get nailed. But let him once get caught, and they want to tear him apart, like a shot wolf in the pack!

Well, sir, it was Cayenne for mine. Cayenne isn't in all ways like Palm Beach, and I didn't care for it much, but I perfected my French, the La Villette sort, and different from my early education in that tongue with Tante Fi-Fi. In the end I escaped and managed to get up to Demerara (Georgetown, you know), where I joined the colony of peppers and became what they call a “Walla-baby.” A Walla-baby is an escaped French convict who keeps alive by making a nasty mess of sorghum and chopped cocoanut and peddling it to the nigger piccaninnies at a total net profit of about five cents a day. ''“Voilà, bébé! Voilà, bébé!”'' says this merchant, and that's how he got the name.

It wasn't much of a job, even when business was brisk, for the son of R. F.—but there, never mind the name. My inherited financial talent kept me from being satisfied even when I made a coup and cleared as much as fifty cents a week, so I pulled out and stowed away on a Royal Mail ship for Trinidad, and landed there, black and blue. The following day I tried to get a billet on an American yacht. While the captain was calling me several different kinds of a beachcomber there came down the deck a crusty-lookin' old lobster, and the minute he laid eyes on me he brought up all standing.

“I've seen this man before,” says he. “What's your name?”

I told him one of those I'd traded under.

“Huh,” says he. “Don't know it.” But he kept on staring at me, and I thought that maybe he had known my father and saw the likeness. So I pipes out, “Maybe you knew my father, sir.” And I told him his name.

He scowled at me for a moment, then his face got purple. “You are a liar and a scoundrel!” says he. “I know the son of that man! You are not he, though you do look alike, and no doubt you have found out the resemblance and tried to work a relationship.”

I stared him straight in the eye. Then I turned to the gangway. While I was beckoning to my nigger the old fellow sings out:

“Hold on a minute. Captain, give that man twenty dollars and let him go!”

But I didn't wait for the twenty. Somehow, charity has always been out of my line. I don't mind takin' it by force or stealth, but as a gift—nit!

A week or so later I got a billet on a boat bound for New York, and once there I was all right-o, as I had a grub-steak salted away where I could get it; and as soon as I got rested up a bit and some of the sugar-fields fever rinsed out of me I was back on my old job again. Butler? Not on your life! Thief—the oldest profession in the world and instituted by father Adam himself, or, to be more accurate, by mother Eve, Adam being only the fence, like.

Well, sir, as if to compensate for all I'd been through, everything ran my way for a while. Then they got to watchin' me pretty close, so I decided to take a European trip for my health. I went to London, but it was early spring, and the raw damp brought out my fever; so I lit out for Monte Carlo, where I managed to drop the bulk of my wad, then went up to Paris, where the first man I ran into at the Moulin Rouge was my old pal, Jeff.

We sat down and had a drink, then says he: “Look here, Frank, I'm off to a swell supper-party. Will you come? Any friend of mine will be welcome there.”

“Who are the people?” I asked.

“The spread is bein' given by Léontine Petrovsky,” says he. “She's a wonder; half French, half Polish. Nobody knows exactly what her lay is, but she's a good fellow and knows her little book. Some say she's a nihilist, others say she's the head of a French gang o' thieves. Whatever her little game may be it pays, all right. She's got a house over in Passy, near Ranelagh. Come on; you might meet somebody there that 'd be useful.”

I agreed, so we piled into a taxi and sped over across the city. We were both in evening dress and might have passed anywhere for a couple of English swells—the real thing. Jeff stopped the motor on a corner, and we got out and walked down a quaint little street and rang the bell of a big iron gate which opened into a garden. A footman in uniform let us in, and we followed him down a long path under big chestnut-trees all in bloom, with beds of flowers on either side. The house was a pretty little stone cottage with ivy growing over the walls and a big studio window at the top. As we reached the door we heard a lot of talking and laughter, which stopped suddenly as the door opened, then went right on again.

Four women and two men were in the room, but the only one I had any eyes for was a tall, dark girl in an orange-colored chiffon gown that made her look like a nymph coming up out of some gorgeous lily. It was cut lower than you'd see anywhere except on the French stage, and she had a great rope of pearls, almost as deep as amber, and just matching her satin skin. I've seen some lovely women in my time, but this girl was superhuman when it came to body and face and the tone of her voice. Everybody was in evening dress, of course, and the first glimpse I got of the others made me think I was in a sure-enough swell crowd. The girls were pretty, and the men, one a Pole and the other a Frenchman, looked distinguished and high bred. The Frenchman wore the red ribbon and had a fine face with keen eyes and an iron-gray mustache and imperial.

“Léontine,” says Jeff to the beauty, “let me present my old friend and comrade, Francis Clamart. I found him all alone at the Moulin Rouge and brought him with me, knowing that you would make him welcome.”

I bowed, but Léontine came forward and gave me her hand.

“M. Clamart is doubly welcome,” says she, “on my friend's account as well as upon his own.”

She looked me straight in the eyes, and I felt the blood coming into my face, for never in my life had I seen such eyes before. In my business we get the habit of takin' in any peculiarity about a person at one glance, and I saw that this girl's eyes were tawny yellow around the pupils, then deepened gradually into a dark jade-green. Her hair was thick, almost black, rather curly but cut a bit short and drawn snugly down over her head and held by a gold band just above her ears so that the curls clustered around her neck.

“While introducing my friend,” says Jeff, “I might add a few of his titles. He is also known as 'His Lordship,' 'Wall Street Frank,' 'Tide-Water Clam,' and 'The Swell.'”

“Ha!” says the Frenchman. “I have heard of you, camarade!” He stepped over and gave me his hand.

“Monsieur Maxeville,” says Léontine, with a smile, “is also a celebrity. No doubt you have heard of 'Chu-Chu le Tondeur'?”

I had, of course, because my profession has its cracks as well as its cracksmen. The Pole I had never heard of, but they told me that his work was mostly executive, having an able gang under him to carry out his ideas. The girls were two of them “souris d'hôtel,” literally “hotel mice,” the French slang for second-story workers. Their game was to get a billet as governess or companion or something of the sort, locate jewels, money, or other valuables as well as the habits of the family, then give up the position and come back later to work the house.

Well, we chatted for a while and had a drink or two, and pretty soon another man came in. He was Italian and a sort of executive officer of the Pole. Then supper was served in a gem of a Louis XV dining-room with all the good things to eat you can think of and vintage champagne, but I noticed that nobody drank much. People at the head of any profession don't, I notice; the two things don't go together, perhaps in mine less than in any other, because with us defeat means not only failure but our finish.

The wine did take off the little edge of formality, however, and pretty soon we were having no end of fun, and from the stories going around you might have thought you were at a swell English house-party, or at some French château, or trailing with the smart set in Newport. Léontine drank more than anybody else, and pretty soon she had everybody on the go. Then Jeff started in and told them the story of how I had got pinched at Auteuil and deported to Cayenne. But when he told who had nailed me there was a moment of astonished silence and then a roar of laughter. Chu-Chu leaned behind the girl, who was sitting between us, and whispered to me that it was Prince Kharkoff himself who was paying for the hospitality we were enjoying, though of course he didn't know it!

“He is mad over Léontine,” says he, and I answered that the prince was a man of taste. But it set me thinking.

Then somebody asked me about Cayenne, and I told them the tale and afterward about my candy business at Georgetown. The “Walla-baby” story tickled them almost to death, and Léontine laughed until she might have fallen out of her chair if I hadn't slipped my arm around her waist. She sort of caught her breath and gave me a look that made my head swim. From that moment she talked almost entirely to me, and I told her about my work. Con games and daylight second-story work didn't seem to appeal to her much, but she was clean fascinated by burglary. She listened to one of my yarns, and when I had finished she asked,

“Have you ever—killed?”

I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “To my way of thinking, killing is a dirty business unworthy of a high-class workman. I carry a gun just for a bluff, if need be, but it is never loaded. I am a burglar, not an assassin, and if I can't carry off a job without killing somebody, then I'll get put away. To my mind,” said I, “burglary is just as much an art as painting or music or literature or sculpture. I take pride in being a master-craftsman. It's the clumsy, awkward bungler, usually some ignorant tough, that goes charging around a house, waking everybody up, and relying on his gun to pull him through that brings discredit on the profession and makes it so hard for the rest of us when we get nipped. But we are all on the same footing where our lives are concerned, so life I will not take, except in a fair fight or to square an account.”

Léontine looked across the table. “Chu-Chu hasn't any such principles,” says she, lifting her chin a little.

“Every man to his taste,” said I. “But when it comes right down to a question of cold nerve it strikes me that it needs more to work unarmed than to know that you've got a gun to fall back on. Besides, it's better practice; it makes you a lot cleaner in your technique.”

She looked at me and nodded, her eyes like emeralds in the dark. “Oh,” says she, “it must be delicious! Such tension! The night, the blackness all about, the stealth, the listening; eyes, ears, touch, every sense alert and keyed to the highest pitch, like a tiger stalking its prey in the black jungle! I should love to feel it!”

“'Have you never tried?” I asked, looking at her curiously.

“No. Never in that way. I have done things like it, but not looking for jewels or money.”

Jeff interrupted just at this moment to crack some joke about “our absent host.” I saw an angry flash in Léontine's eyes, but before she could answer I said to Jeff:

“Speaking about Kharkoff reminds me that I never paid you that bet. Five pounds, wasn't it?” I pulled out my pocketbook and handed him a hundred-franc note with twenty-five in gold and silver. “Is that near enough?” said I.

He took it with a laugh. “Never mind the twenty-two sous,” says he. “Sure you can spare it? You told me you got singed down at Monte.”

“Oh, I've got enough to take me home,” I answered, laughing.

Léontine gave me a quick look. “If you need any money,” says she, “I'll be your banker.”

I thanked her and said that I thought I could manage until I got home, but she wasn't satisfied.

“Why don't you do a job here?” says she.

“Here in Paris?” I answered.

“Yes. We can find you something. Quick as a flash she turned to the Pole. “Ivan,” says she, “our guest, M. Clamart, is in need of money. Haven't you something that you could turn over to him?”

Everybody stopped talking and looked at the Pole. He drew his silky black mustache through his fingers and smiled.

“That would be interesting,” says Chu-Chu. “I should like to see a demonstration of the skill of my American comrade. Come, Ivan, surely you have some little work that you might turn over to M. Clamart.”

This sounds funny to you, maybe, but it was reasonable enough. Just like as if I might have been any other kind of a foreign sport, a pigeon-shooter or jockey or something like that. Ivan smiled again, then drew a note-book out of his pocket and began to turn the pages.

Léontine looked at me. “Ivan,” says she, in her low voice, “is the one who arranges most of this work here in Paris. He has the entrée to many good houses, and when he goes into society he is on the lookout for an opening. When he finds one he turns it over to some of his people, giving them all the necessary information. Listen.”

The Pole was studying his note-book. Presently he looked up and smiled. “Here is something which ought to pay,” says he, “and which should not greatly tax the skill of so distinguished an expert as our friend. It is a private house on the Boulevard des Invalides, standing back in a garden which surrounds it on all sides, the whole enclosed by a high wall. The occupants,” he smiled, “are your compatriots, M. Clamart, an American gentleman and his wife. She has very fine jewels. When I dined there not long ago I estimated her pearls at fifty thousand francs, while her rings and tiara should double that amount in value. When I admired the pearls she told me that she was fond of jewels and had some very fine ones. No doubt these jewels, together with the gold and silver table-service, which is very good, are kept in an old-fashioned safe built into the wall of the dining-room and rather clumsily concealed by a portière. I have here a map of the house and grounds and a plan of the entresol. For the rings, it will be necessary to enter the room of madame. No doubt they will be found on the dressing-table; but they are of lesser importance. If you wish to undertake the work, then go ahead. Whatever you may be so fortunate as to find you may bring to my office, and we will settle the matter according to the usual terms.”

Léontine looked at me with eyes like brilliants. “Let me go with you!” says she.

“Ah, no!” says the Pole. “That would not do!”

“Ivan,” cries Léontine, “I insist. I want the experience! The excitement!” She turned to me. “You will let me go, will you not?” she begged, for all the world like a child that wants to be taken on a picnic.

Everybody laughed, and I glanced at my watch. It was just two o'clock.”

“All right,” said I. “Come along.”

This made them laugh even harder, though nobody took it seriously. When I explained that I meant business, and was ready to do the trick then and there, they stopped laughing and looked astonished.

“There you have American methods!” says Jeff. “No time like the present, eh, old pal?”

“But you have not yet looked over the ground!” cries Chu-Chu, flinging out his hands.

“I'll do that when I get there,” said I. “That's my custom. It is a great mistake to go prying around beforehand, unless the job is very complicated, which, from all accounts, this is not. I am just like a European nobleman—at home in any rich man's house.”

There was another laugh; Léontine gave me a look that set my heart to hammering.

“How about tools?” asks Jeff.

“I will stop at my hotel and run up and get what I need. I always carry them with me,” said I.

Well, it was a bit wild, but it was a wild crowd, and the idea hit them in the eye. There was a dash and go to it which struck their crooked natures in the right spot, so when Léontine jumped up and swore that she was going to have a hand in the game, nobody had a word of protest.

“I've got a maillot up-stairs,” says she. “I had it made for a masquerade to which I went as a souris d'hôtel.”

“Where you stole the hearts of all the men,” says Chu-Chu.

“All right,” said I. “Get your maillot, but be quick about it, for we haven't much time.”

Léontine spun about with her eyes flashing and her cheeks all aglow. “Here is a plan,” says she. “What if I order the motor and we all go down together? The rest of you can wait near by while we go in and get the stuff. Then we will come back here and finish our supper-party.”

Everybody howled with delight. It was crazy, but crazy games made on the spur of the moment have always appealed to me, and besides, I felt a sort of national pride in showing those foreign crooks how we do things at home.

It wasn't long before we heard the girls laughing in the antechamber and here was Léontine, standing in the doorway like some wonderful statue of a woman carved in coal. Her full-length black maillot began with a hood which covered all of her head but the face, encased her straight round neck, and swept in lovely curves right to the floor, clothing every inch of her but the white, gleaming face. She wore a little black silk mask, and her eyes blazed through the oval slits like two quivering jewels, while her red lips curled up in a sort of mocking smile.

For a moment everybody was speechless, sheer dumb with the wonder of her. Then I heard Ivan gasp under his breath,

“La femme du diable!”

Body o' me! But she looked like the devil's wife. She wasn't divine by a long shot, and certainly she wasn't human! Just for a moment she stood there, enjoying the effect she made, then she picked up a long cloak with a hood and flung it over her shoulders.

“The car is waiting,” says she; “let us go.” She turned to me. “Here is a mask I cut for you from some black stuff.”

We were all a little quiet as we got into the car, a big touring affair with a double row of seats. I told the chauffeur to go to my hotel, and presently we pulled up in front of the door. I ran up and filled the pockets of my overcoat with what I thought I might need, then ran down and out, wondering what the gold-laced concierge who opened the door of the car for me would think if he knew that the gay swell he was serving was a burglar on the way to a job!

“What now?” asks Ivan, who was now driving the car.

“Go to the house,” said I, getting up beside him, “and stop directly in front of the door.”

“What do you propose to do?” says he, letting in the clutch.

“You will see. I'm not quite sure myself. Wait until we get there,” I answered.

It was then about a quarter to three, and a little drizzle of rain was falling. We sped across the Place de la Concorde, all gleaming and glistening with the lamplight on the wet pavement, then up the Champs Elysées, across the river by the Pont Alexandre III, and around the Invalides. A minute later we pulled up in front of a high stone wall, over the top of which rose the branches of big trees, black and dripping with the rain. The street was deserted, so far as I could see, so I jumped out and crossed the sidewalk to a small iron door which was beside the big gates of the driveway. The little door looked pretty solid, and I was afraid of an alarm, so I stepped to the big gates and was up and over like a cat. A quick examination of the door showed me that there were no wires and that it was locked and bolted on the inside, so I slid the bolt, and in two minutes had picked the lock and swung back the door. Then I walked out to the car.

“Come on,” I said to Léontine. “The rest of you wait on the other side of the street. We won't be long.”

Léontine followed me through the door. For a minute I waited, looking up and down the street. There were one or two distant figures, but nobody near by.

“Bravo, mon ami!” says the girl. “You lose no time.”

“There's none to lose,” said I, and shut the door gently and slid one of the bolts. Then we stepped into the wet shrubbery, and a moment later the gray walls of the house rose through the foliage ahead. I chose one of the long French windows of the dining-room and examined the shutters. They were iron and bolted on the inside, but a little scientific work with the hack-saw and I had them open and stood listening carefully for any alarm. Then I cut an armhole in the window, and holding the glass carefully with the adhesive wax, removed it and reached in and turned the knob. A moment later we were in the house.

“Here we are in the dining-room,” I whispered to Léontine. “Now for the safe.”

We found it just where Ivan had said. It was a clumsy, old-fashioned box. Léontine held the light on it from my little pocket-lamp, and it needed only a few minutes' work before I had it open. The gold and silver stuff was all there, every bit of it solid, and as soon as I had stowed it in the sack I forced the little drawers, and sure enough, here were the jewels—a splendid rope of pearls, a tiara of brilliants, and a lot of small pieces, rings, brooches, and the like. In no time we had the safe stripped of everything that we wanted.

“Now let's go,” I whispered. licked the cream off this jug!”

But the sight of the jewels had got Léontine excited.

“There must be some more jewelry up-stairs,” says she. “Let's get all that there is.”

“No,” said I. “It's not worth the risk. We are well paid for the job. Let's get away.”

“But I want the rest,” she whispered. “And I want the fun of getting it. This has been too easy.” She moved toward the door. “Come, let's go up.”

I slipped my arm around her waist and drew her back. “Don't be silly,” said I. “That is the way people get in trouble. We've had our lark and made a good haul; don't spoil it all.”

I was drawing her gently back as I spoke. She yielded a little at first. Suddenly she turned, with a low, whispering laugh, threw both her arms around my neck, and drew my face to hers. I felt her rich lips against mine.

“Now can I have my way, Frank?” says she, with a low, gurgling little laugh.

I dropped the sack, and it fell with a clatter, but neither of us noticed it. With both arms clasping her tight I whispered,

“Yes, for another kiss.”

She kissed me again, then again. “Now will you come with me to get the rings?” she panted.

“Yes,” said I, and loosed my hold of her. Picking up the sack, I carried it to the window and dropped it softly on the ground, outside. We passed out through the drawing-room and into the antechamber, then stopped at the foot of the stairs to listen. There was not a sound. Up the stairs we stole, stepping close to the wall to lessen the chance of creaking planks, but there was no danger, for the stairway was of heavy oak. On a landing we stopped again. It was silent as the grave, and about as dark, but for some reason I did not like it. A burglar gets to have instincts, like a wild animal or a cat or any other prowler, and several times mine have warned me of danger and saved my pelt before there was actually anything that came within the range of the ordinary senses. It's an uncanny feeling, and the only one that has ever made me nervous. Danger that you have positive evidence of ain't hard to face or get around, but danger that you feel in the air without being able actually to sense is mighty unsettling.

I put out my hand behind me, and it fell on Léontine's shoulder, and rested there. For a full three minutes we stood like two statues. Then the clocks of St. Francis Xavier and the Invalides struck the half-hour, and I realized that it must be getting daylight outside.

“We'd better go. It's daylight now, and there's something here I don't like,” I whispered to Léontine.

For answer she clasped my hand tight in hers and pushed her face forward until her lips were against my ear and I could feel her breath on my cheek.

“You promised,” she whispered, almost pleadingly. “Surely you are not afraid! And there may be another kiss for you when it's all done!”

I didn't answer, but started ahead: We reached the top of the stairs and passed softly down the hall, for I judged that madame's room would be in the front of the house and probably on the southeast corner. As we reached the end I could see that the dawn was coming, for there was a pale-gray light through the window. Then all at once I had the same nasty sensation of danger close at hand, this time even stronger, and I cursed myself for a fool to have listened to the girl. We stopped again, and I whispered:

“I don't like this. There's somebody around—”

That was as far as I got, for there came a sharp click from behind us, then a blaze of light, and there we were, standing in the full glare of the electric lamps at the far end of the hall, while not ten feet away, between us and the stairs, stood a tall man in pajamas, with a big black revolver at half-arm, ready to cut down and shoot.

Léontine gave a choked little scream and lurched back against me. She was between the man and myself. But the girl was game, and suddenly she reached behind her and shoved a gun into my hand. I saw my chance, because the man balked at firing on a woman, and for the sake of Léontine I might have dropped him.

But as I glanced at his face my heart seemed to stop beating. For there in front of me was my own living, breathing image! There were the same clean-cut, high-bred features inherited from generations of aristocrats; the same flat cheeks. and straight brows, with the same blue eyes shining out beneath; the same light, close-cropped mustache and short crisp hair and the ears set trim and close, high on the side of the narrow head. By George, if I'd stepped in front of a mirror the likeness couldn't have been cleaner! And I knew in that moment that the man was my closest blood kinsman, my half-brother. I knew that he had married a rich woman and lived in Paris, but I had never known where.

“Shoot! Shoot!” Léontine was hissing in my ear.

But the man had got himself together. I saw his face set and stiffen and knew that something was going to happen quick, so I shoved Léontine behind me and faced him, the gun in my hand. His keen eye caught the flash of it, then bang! and I felt a bullet tearing through my shoulder. Bang! and he fired again. But at the same moment I leaped forward, and though the powder scorched my face the bullet only creased the scalp. The next second I had both arms around him, and down the stairs we fell, over and over, to the landing. His head struck something, and he went limp in my grip.

“Run!” I yelled at Léontine. “Now's your chance! Run!”

She swept down and past me like a black leopardess, but at the foot of the stairs she stopped and looked back.

“Come!” she cries, her heart in her voice. “Come!”

I scrambled to my feet, and together we rushed through the drawing-room, through the dining-room, and across the garden to the gate. The car was on the other side of the street, the motor running. Léontine darted for it, but at the same moment a policeman came running around the corner of the wall.

“Here's a sacrifice play,” said I to myself. You see, the cop could have caught the car before it got under way, and it seemed better for one to get nabbed than for all. So as he came I tackled him, football fashion, and down we went in a heap. As we were struggling there in the street I saw Jeff jump out and haul Léontine into the limousine; then the car shot ahead and disappeared in the gray dawn across the Place des Invalides.

Yes, they “passed me the tobacco”—the third degree, you know, but never a word did they get out of me. Now I'm off for Afric's sunny clime; my last voyage, I guess. Sure, he was my half-brother. He acknowledged the relationship, when I had told him a few things, and he has been so decent as to say that he is sorry for me and has promised to do what he can for me. But that will not be much, I guess. You see, I'm an old offender—and a dangerous criminal.

Léontine? She writes me that she loves me, adores me, worships me! But it won't do either of us much good, I fancy—nor harm. And for the second time the prince has scored a grand slam.