[Illustration: "WHAT IS YOUR ANNUAL INCOME AS A BURGLAR?"]
"I don't know about that," protested Baxter, doggedly. "Who'd give _me_ a job?"
"As I supposed. Honest work is plentiful, therefore you are absolutely without excuse. No one has usurped your name and fortune, stolen your ancestral home or intended bride; neither have you been outlawed for your political or religious beliefs, or unjustly accused of crime."
The big burglar looked extremely blank at this pointed address, and took a grumbling drink of whiskey. Mr. Graham promptly came to his companion's relief.
"You have made out a _prima facie_ case, as the lawyers say, but the fact remains that there _is_ a fascination in the life we lead, and some romance. There is mystery about it, for one thing, and danger for another. Then we certainly have the sympathy of a certain class of society, when we are prisoners."
"Is not the sympathy to which you allude confined to murderers, especially those who kill their wives?"
"As a rule, yes," admitted Graham; "but the people, who have sympathy for murderers, generally have such a superabundance that they can spare some for us. I have known burglars to receive six bouquets in a single day, and from real ladies, too."
"I am afraid," said Mr. Braithwait, with a smile, "that the sympathy extended with such small discretion has little market value. But let us pass that by and glance at the disagreeable side of your profession. For instance, this night you have walked from the city, the nearest point of which is three miles."
"Well, four; and four back is eight. It could not have been a pleasant walk, as the night is cloudy and the roads are heavy from recent rains."
"There warn't no choice," said Baxter, savagely. "We _had_ to walk."
"There it is," said Mr. Braithwait, triumphantly, "you _had_ to walk. Now, I don't have to walk; I ride in the train or my carriage at any hour of the day or night. No honest man has to walk, if he has money--and, of course, you have."
"The point," admitted Mr. Graham, reluctantly, "is well taken."
"I feel certain of it. Nor is this the only instance in which your pleasure is marred by fear. The very fame for which you strive is a constant bar to your enjoyment. If you take lodging at a hotel you are ejected; you may be refused admittance to any respectable theatre; in any place of entertainment, except the very lowest, you cannot make a new acquaintance for fear he may be a detective plotting your capture; you are compelled to eat, drink, and sleep among vile associates and vulgar surroundings; and all for a pitiful three thousand a year! By heaven! it is worth thirty!"