"A thief's word?" I asked.
"My brother's word," says John; "that's good enough for me."
Say, my friend, would you think me capable of tears? Me, a post-graduate American crook, and as hard as nails? I didn't shed them, but they were in my eyes and a lump in my throat, and I had to get up and walk to the grated window.
"Will you give it?" asked John.
"Yes," I muttered.
"Your hand on it," says he.
"A thief's hand?"
"My brother's hand."
My right arm was in bandages, from his bullet, so I turned and held out the left.
"Here's the left," said I. "That's all right, though, seein' that I'm your brother on the wrong side."
"You're my brother on the right side from now on," says he, and gave me a hearty grip and then turned to the door.
"Now I'll get busy," says he, and went out without looking back.
Well, sir, how he managed it I don't know, but two weeks later I walked out with him a free man. His car was waiting at the door.
"Where now, John?" I asked.
"Home," says he. "You are to stop with us, Frank, until we make up our minds what you'd better do. Edith expects you and we have sent to the hotel for your things."
Now what do you think of that? Only three weeks before Léontine Petrovski and I had broken
