tickled them almost to death, and Léontine laughed until she might have fallen out of her chair if I hadn't slipped my arm around her waist. She sort of caught her breath and gave me a look that made my head swim. From that moment she talked almost entirely to me, and I told her about my work. Con games and daylight second-story work didn't seem to appeal to her much, but she was clean fascinated by burglary. She listened to one of my yarns, and when I had finished she asked,
"Have you ever—killed?"
I shook my head. "No," I answered. "To my way of thinking, killing is a dirty business unworthy of a high-class workman. I carry a gun just for a bluff, if need be, but it is never loaded. I am a burglar, not an assassin, and if I can't carry off a job without killing somebody, then I'll get put away. To my mind," said I, "burglary is just as much an art as painting or music or literature or sculpture. I take pride in being a master-craftsman. It's the clumsy, awkward bungler, usually some ignorant tough, that goes charging around a house, waking everybody up, and relying on his gun to pull him through that brings discredit on the profession and makes it so hard for the rest of us when we get nipped. But we are all on the same footing where our lives are concerned, so life I will not take, except in a fair fight or to square an account."
Léontine looked across the table. "Chu-Chu hasn't any such principles," says she, lifting her chin a little.
"Every man to his taste," said I. "But when it comes right down to a question of cold nerve it
