My father had the music-box hidden under his cloak; we had worn cloaks
by way of disguise. He had solemnly assured me that he did not take it.
I knew that he did, and knew something of which he was evidently
ignorant; namely, that the box would crow at daylight and betray him if
I could prolong the division of profits till that time. All occurred as
I wished: as the gaslight began to pale in the library and the shape of
the windows was seen dimly behind the curtains, a long cock-a-doodle-doo
came from beneath the old gentleman's cloak, followed by a few bars of
an aria from _Tannhauser_, ending with a loud click. A small hand-axe,
which we had used to break into the unlucky house, lay between us on the
table; I picked it up. The old man seeing that further concealment was
useless took the box from under his cloak and set it on the table. "Cut
it in two if you prefer that plan," said he; "I tried to save it from
destruction."

He was a passionate lover of music and could himself play the concertina
with expression and feeling.

I said: "I do not question the purity of your motive: it would be
presumptuous in me to sit in judgment on my father. But business is
business, and with this axe I am going to effect a dissolution of our
partnership unless you will consent in all future burglaries to wear a
bell-punch."

"No," he said, after some reflection, "no, I could not do that; it would
look like a confession of dishonesty. People would say that you
distrusted me."

I could not help admiring his spirit and sensitiveness; for a moment I