rather dazed. You see, the reception I'd had was so different from what I expected. It was so cordial and natural, even while not ignoring the real state of affairs. There was none of the fuss I'd dreaded being made over the reformed criminal—especially when it was a case of reform or pencil servitude; and on the other hand there was no silly pretence that I was just like the rest of their sort. The sentimental mush that is served out to the ex-thief by a certain class of people is almost enough to keep the self-respecting crook from turning honest, unless he's hard up against it; but there was nothing of that sort here. Some folks seem to think that a criminal is an entirely different sort of human being, but my experience in the Under-World had shown that there's a lot of honesty in most crooks, just the same as there's a lot of crookedness in many honest folk, and that the difference is principally in circumstance. But even then, you do find once in a great while what seems to be the unmixed bad, just as there is the unmixed good. This yarn is a story of both, and a few between.
John took me to his smoking-room and we sat down and each lighted a cigarette. I noticed his furniture and pictures, and he seemed a bit surprised to find that I understood periods and art. He touched the bell and ordered whisky and soda. When it came I declined, never touching anything except a little wine with meals.
"You don't drink?" he asked, pouring himself out a pretty stiff one.
"Never hard stuff," I answered. "That was too risky in my old trade."
