friend"—Keeban, his strange, sinister twin—"sitting in with destiny" by knowing, in advance, what he was going to do to others. I'd thought of him sitting in with destiny on Dorothy Crewe and old Win Scofield and on Jerry himself; but I hadn't thought of him sitting in with destiny on me. Stupid, now that I came to see it; for of course I was in his calculations all along; he'd used me, as long as I proved profitable and now that I'd failed him, he'd finish me.
For I knew than that Keeban had me. He had not shown himself in that circle of reception in the alley. No; every face there had been unknown to me, unless one was the dyke-keeper of Klangenberg's delicatessen. They were normal-appearing, good-looking youths who made the majority in that circle.
I'd often noticed—haven't you—how indistinguishable our felons are from the philanthropists of the day. Mix up the captions—best of newspapers sometimes do—accompanying the illustrated page pictures of the gentry who last night did "Fanny's First Play" for the Presbyterian Home and the guests and ladies who last night failed to start their Fiat promptly after they had it all filled from the ring and wrist-watch trays in Caldon's windows, and
