"Why?" I repeated, studying his face, which still seemed heavy with a sort of condescending I'm-terribly-sorry-for-you expression.
But the next moment the mask went up, like a shutter over a window. He even smiled a little as he reached out for another cigarette.
"You don't happen to be looking for a partner, do you?" he inquired, as he stared rather abstractedly over that sparkling array of family junk.
"I need one badly," I rather surprised him by admitting.
"Could I possibly qualify?" he asked, after a moment's pause.
"I don't think so," I told him.
"I'm sorry," he announced, with an almost listless motion toward the black club-bag. "For I've done a bit of adventuring myself along these lines."
I looked up at him quickly, suddenly asking myself if it could indeed be true that this mysteriously calm-eyed man was by any chance what Bud and his friends would call a crook? A crook! I hated that ugly and overworked word. I hated it as much as I hated the tricks and meannesses and cruelties with which the bearer of any such brand was compelled to fill his life. For I had long since given up my girlish faith in gentleman burglars and evening-
