"And you would like to claim me as a brother?" I asked, sarcastically.
"Drop it, Frank," said John. "See here … you look rather gone. What do you say to a drink?"
"I could do with one."
He turned and banged on the door, then when the jailer came sent him out for a bottle of champagne. I noticed that his French was as good as mine.
"My dear chap," said John, presently, "I don't pretend to be very bright, but I know something of your history and that you have been forced into all this business by force of circumstance. You've never had a square deal. There's not a wrong line in your face. Won't you loosen up a bit and tell me some thing about yourself?"
There was something mighty winning in the tone of his voice and before I realised it I was telling him the story of my life. The jailer came back with the champagne and a couple of glasses and we had a drink and a cigarette while I was spinning my yarn. John listened without interrupting.
"Look here, Frank," said he, when I had finished, "we must get you out of this."
"You're mighty good," I answered, "but there's nothing you can do. I'm an old offender—a recidiviste, all catalogued and bertilloned. I've done my little trick in Cayenne, and this time it's au bat d' Afrique for me."
"I'm not so sure," says he. "I've got some strong influence in official and diplomatic circles. Suppose I manage it, will you give me your word to live strictly on the square?"
