The Burglar (Masson)

by Tom Masson

THE BURGLAR

By Tom Masson

THE burglar put the candlestick on the bureau with his left hand—in his right he held a revolver—and examined the necklace critically by the feeble light. It took him some time. There were twenty-six pearls, and his scrutiny was evenly distributed among them all. The necklace had been purchased the week before for one hundred thousand dollars. The burglar had read the account in the papers, and he was wondering whether the purchaser had received the worth of his money. He was a cool hand, this burglar; but, then, he had once been a gentleman.

On the far side of the room, screened by a friendly portière, stood a detective. He, also, had a revolver in his hand. He had come in on rubber-soled shoes an instant before. The burglar didn't have rubber-soled shoes; but he had taken off his boots down-stairs, and stood now in his stocking feet. Perhaps, he could not afford rubber-soled shoes. Times may have been dull.

The burglar, finishing his scrutiny, folded up the necklace, and, putting it carelessly in the pocket of his coat, prepared to leave the room. There were other things of value there, but he had come for that alone.

As he moved out, an object on the wall took his attention. It was a picture. He held the candle up to get a better view of it, and, as he did so, he started back, involuntarily. His own face stared at him from the frame. She had not forgotten him. Well, he thought, it was tit for tat. If she still kept his picture on the wall, he had her necklace in his pocket. Half-smiling at the thought, he started out of the room once more, when something tucked in the corner of the mirror attracted his attention. It was a clipping from a society journal.

He put down the candlestick again, and ventured forward. The clipping was much rumpled, and the light spluttered, but still he could read it.

 

It is said that Mrs. Peter Blanton made some fuss about accepting a hundred-thousand-dollar pearl necklace her hubby gave her the other day, because he had asked some other woman to select it for him. However that may be, I am authoritatively informed that she is to wear it at the Bellknobs' dinner next Wednesday evening.

Mrs. Peter, as every one knows, is a thoroughbred, and not the one to turn down a necklace just because her hubby got advice. It will be remembered that, four years ago, when she married that scapegoat, Jack Somerset, who embezzled, and was caught and served a term, she went on just as if nothing had happened, and captured Peter Blanton by pure nerve. Well, it's something to have a better half who can buy pearl necklaces every day in the year if he wishes to, even though he has to hire help to make his selection.

 

As the burglar picked up the candlestick once more, he turned and faced the bed. With her head on the lace pillow, a beautiful woman lay sleeping. It was rather an interesting situation. There was the burglar, with the mask over his face to conceal his identity, and the hundred-thousand-dollar necklace, that the woman's husband had given her, loosely thrown in his pocket. There was the woman quietly sleeping as if nothing in the world was the matter; and there was the detective, watching—and waiting.

The burglar hesitated a moment. Then, he stepped to the bed, and, with his revolver, tapped lightly on the brass foot. The woman opened her eyes, slowly at first, and, with a sudden cry, started up. The burglar dropped his mask.

"Eleanor!" he said.

With a swift glance, she recognized him.

"Jack!" she exclaimed. "You—here! What does this mean?"

He held up the necklace. "I came for this," he said. "I know a place where I can pawn it. I'll send you the ticket. Since I got out, I've tried to be honest, but it was no use. The taint is on me. I wouldn't have come here if this was yours, but you know he can stand it."

She shivered. This woman, whose soul had been seared in so many fires, grew suddenly cold. Yet, in her eyes, for an instant shone the light of an old affection. She loved him still, and this daring act, its very audacity, its dramatic conception, appealed to her.

"Take it!" she said. "If the worst comes to the worst, I'll swear I gave it to you. Kiss me—and go."

He laid down his revolver on the silk coverlet. At this moment, the detective stepped from behind the portière, and covered his quarry.

The woman's expression changed utterly. She turned to the intruder. "Where did you come from?" she asked.

"From your husband, madame. He gave orders to have the house watched."

"And are you the only watcher?"

"Yes."

She reached forward, and clutched the revolver that the burglar had laid aside—for her sake. Leveling it full at the detective, she said:

"Now, if you attempt to stop him, I swear before God I'll shoot you!"

Still pointing the revolver, she turned quietly to the burglar.

"Now, Jack, kiss me," she said, "and run along. I never wanted it, anyhow, and it will be such a good joke on Peter!"