CHAPTER IV
A BACK EDDY
Edith, I knew, was an early riser, and the next morning at nine I found her already at work in her studio. She was alone, for Miss Dalghren was more luxurious.
"May I interrupt you for a few minutes talk, Edith?" I asked.
"Of course you may," she answered, laying down her palette and giving me a quick look with her thoughtful eyes.
So I told her of my letter from Léontine, holding back, of course, the name and identity of the writer. Edith listened with her smooth brows knit. I did not mention what Léontine had said about a thief being always a thief, because I knew in my heart that this did not apply to me. I had been a criminal, but not a weak man. Whenever I have committed a crime it has always been of my own deliberate intention and not the result of temptation. To my way of thinking the man who wants to be honest and then falls, in spite of himself, is not a thief. He is not worthy of the name of a thief. He is merely a weakling. To that class belong pilfering valets de chambre and absconding cashiers and the like. A professional thief would be ashamed to associate with that sort. He steals because he wants to, not because he can't help it. What I dwelt upon to Edith was the harm that might come to her husband
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