hat and a pair of gloves were produced, not perfect in fit, but
quite respectable.

Soberly they walked out into the street and off through the
two-o'clock stillness. The mystified burglar was losing his
equanimity. He could not understand the captor's motive, nor could
he much longer curb his curiosity. In his mind he was fully
satisfied that he was walking straight to the portals of the nearest
station. In all his career as a housebreaker, he had never before
been caught, and now to be captured in such a way and treated in
such a way was far past comprehension. Ten minutes before he was
looking at a stalwart figure with a leveled revolver, confidently
expecting to drop with the bullet in his body from an agitated
weapon. Indeed, he encountered conditions so strange that he felt a
doubt of their reality. He had, for some peculiar and amazing
reason, no desire to escape. There was something in the oddness of
the proceeding that made him wish to see it to an end. Besides, he
was quite sure the strapping young fellow would shoot if he
attempted to bolt.

"This is a fairly good eating house," observed the would-be victim
as they came to an "all-nighter." They entered and deliberately
removed their coats, the thief watching his host with shifty, even
twinkling eyes. "What shall it be, Mr. Robber? You are hungry, and
you may order the entire bill, from soup to the date line, if you
like. Pitch in."

"Say, boss, what's your game?" demanded the crook, suddenly. His
sharp, pinched face, with its week's growth of beard, wore a new
expression--that of admiration. "I ain't such a rube that I don't