Then the officer opened the door. Evidently the burglar was wise
enough to appreciate the futility of fighting against odds. Perhaps he
did not wish to add the charge of manslaughter to that of robbery.
Certainly, he did not feel himself called to sudden death. At any
rate, his hands were above his head, and in less than a second he was
securely manacled.

The chief officer had been eying him closely. "Say!" he exclaimed.
"Aren't you Limber-Limb Grant?" The burglar grinned, but did not
answer. "By jove!" shouted the officer. "It is! Call the girls down
here," he ordered, and when they appeared, gazing at the burglar with
mingled admiration, pity and fear, he congratulated them with
considerable excitement.

"It's Limber-Limb Grant," he explained. "There's a reward of five
hundred dollars for him. You'll get the money, as sure as you're
born." Then he turned again to the burglar. "Say, Grant, what's a
fellow like you doing on such a fifth-rate job as this? A Methodist
parsonage is not just in your line, is it?"

Limber-Limb laughed sheepishly. "Well," he explained good-naturedly,
"Chicago got too hot for me. I had to get out in a hurry, and I
couldn't get my hands on any money. I had a fine lot of jewels, but I
was so pushed I couldn't use them. I came here and loafed around town
for a while, because folks said Mount Mark was so fast asleep it did
not even wake up long enough to read the daily papers. I heard about
this parsonage bunch, and knew the old man had gone off to get more
religion. This afternoon at the station I saw a detective from Chicago
get off the train, and I knew what that meant. But I needed some cash,