The Closing Net. Henry Cottrell Rowland

French slang for second-story workers. Their game was to get a billet as governess or companion or something of the sort, locate jewels, money, or other valuables as well as the habits of the family, then give up the position and send some one to work the house.

      ​Well, we chatted for a while and had a drink or two, and pretty soon another man came in. He was Italian and a sort of executive officer of the Pole. Then supper was served in a gem of a Louis XV dining-room with all the good things to eat you can think of and vintage champagne, but I noticed that nobody drank much. People at the head of any profession don't, I notice; the two things don't go together, perhaps in mine less than in any other, because with us defeat means not only failure but our finish.

      The wine did take off the little edge of formality, however, and pretty soon we were having no end of fun, and from the stories going around you might have thought you were at a swell English house-party, or at some French château, or trailing with the smart set in Newport. Léontine drank more than anybody else, and pretty soon she had everybody on the go. Then Jeff started in and told them the story of how I had got pinched at Auteuil and deported to Cayenne. But when he told who had nailed me there was a moment of astonished silence and then a roar of laughter. Chu-Chu leaned behind the girl, who was sitting between us, and whispered to me that it was Prince Kharkoff himself who was paying for the hospitality we were enjoying, though of course he didn't know it!

      "He is mad over Léontine," says he, and I answered that the prince was a man of taste. But it set me thinking.

      Then somebody asked me about Cayenne, and I told them the tale and afterward about my candy business at Georgetown. The "Walla-baby" story ​tickled them almost to death, and Léontine laughed until she might have fallen out of her chair if I hadn't slipped my arm around her waist. She sort of caught her breath and gave me a look that made my head swim. From that moment she talked almost entirely to me, and I told her about my work. Con games and daylight second-story work didn't seem to appeal to her much, but she was clean fascinated by burglary. She listened to one of my yarns, and when I had finished she asked,

      "Have you ever—killed?"

      I shook my head. "No," I answered. "To my way of thinking, killing is a dirty business unworthy of a high-class workman. I carry a gun just for a bluff, if need be, but it is never loaded. I am a burglar, not an assassin, and if I can't carry off a job without killing somebody, then I'll get put away. To my mind," said I, "burglary is just as much an art as painting or music or literature or sculpture. I take pride in being a master-craftsman. It's the clumsy, awkward bungler, usually some ignorant tough, that goes charging around a house, waking everybody up, and relying on his gun to pull him through that brings discredit on the profession and makes it so hard for the rest of us when we get nipped. But we are all on the same footing where our lives are concerned, so life I will not take, except in a fair fight or to square an account."

      Léontine looked across the table. "Chu-Chu hasn't any such principles," says she, lifting her chin a little.

      "Every man to his taste," said I. "But when it comes right down to a question of cold nerve it ​strikes me that it needs more to work unarmed than to know that you've got a gun to fall back on. Besides, it's better practice; it makes you a lot cleaner in your technique."

      She looked at me and nodded, her eyes like emeralds in the dark. "Oh," says she, "it must be delicious! Such tension! The night, the blackness all about, the stealth, the listening; eyes, ears, touch, every sense alert and keyed to the highest pitch, like a tiger stalking its prey in the black jungle! I should love to feel it!"

      "Have you never tried?" I asked, looking at her curiously.

      "No. Never in that way. I have done things like it, but not looking for jewels or money."

      Jeff interrupted just at this moment to crack some joke about "our absent host." I saw an angry flash in Léontine's eyes, but before she could answer I said to Jeff:

      "Speaking about Kharkoff reminds me that I never paid you that bet. Five pounds, wasn't it?" I pulled out my pocketbook and handed him a hundred-franc note with twenty-five in gold and silver. "Is that near enough?" said I.

      He took it with a laugh. "Never mind the twenty-two sous," says he. "Sure you can spare it? You told me you got singed down at Monte."

      "Oh, I've got enough to take me home," I answered, laughing.

      Léontine gave me a quick look. "If you need any money," says she, "I'll be your banker."

      I thanked her and said that I thought I could manage until I got home, but she wasn't satisfied.

      ​"Why don't you do a job here?" says she.

      "Here in Paris?" I answered.

      "Yes. We can find you something." Quick as a flash she turned to the Pole. "Ivan," says she, "our guest, M. Clamart, is in need of money. Haven't you something that you could turn over to him?"

      Everybody stopped talking and looked at the Pole. He drew his silky black moustache through his fingers and smiled.

      "That would be interesting," says Chu-Chu. "I should like to see a demonstration of the skill of my American comrade. Come, Ivan, surely you have some little work that you might turn over to M. Clamart."

      This sounds funny to you, maybe, but it was reasonable enough. Just like as if I might have been any other kind of a foreign sport, a pigeon-shooter or jockey or something like that. Ivan smiled again, then drew a note-book out of his pocket and began to turn the pages.

      Léontine looked at me. "Ivan," says she, in her low voice, "is the one who arranges most of this work here in Paris. He has the entrée to many good houses, and when he goes into society he is on the lookout for an opening. When he finds one he turns it over to some of his people, giving them all the necessary information. Listen."

      The Pole was studying his note-book. Presently he looked up and smiled. "Here is something which ought to pay," says he, "and which should not greatly tax the skill of so distinguished an expert as our friend. It is a private house on the ​Boulevard des Invalides, standing back in a garden which surrounds it on all sides, the whole enclosed by a high wall. The occupants," he smiled, "are your compatriots, M. Clamart, an American gentleman and his wife. She has very fine jewels. When I dined there not long ag I estimated her pearls at fifty thousand francs, while her rings and tiara should double that amount in value. When I admired the pearls she told me that she was fond of jewels and had some very fine ones. No doubt these jewels, together with the gold and silver table-service, which is very good, are kept in an old-fashioned safe built into the wall of the dining-room and rather clumsily concealed by a portière. I have here a map of the house and grounds and a plan of the entresol. For the rings, it will be necessary to enter the room of madame. No doubt they will be found on the dressing-table; but they are of lesser importance. If you wish to undertake the work, then go ahead. Whatever you may be so fortunate as to find you may bring to my office, and we will settle the matter according to the usual terms."

      Léontine looked at me with eyes like brilliants. "Let me go with you!" says she.

      "Ah, no!" says the Pole. "That would not do!"

      "Ivan," cries Léontine, "I insist. I want the experience! The excitement!" She turned to me. "You will let me go, will you not?" she begged, for all the world like a child that wants to be taken on a picnic.

      Everybody laughed, and I glanced at my watch. It was just two o clock.

      ​"All right," said I. "Come along."

      This made them laugh even harder, though nobody took it seriously. When I explained that I meant business, and was ready to do the trick then and there, they stopped laughing and looked astonished.

      "There you have American methods!" says Jeff. "No time like the present, eh, old pal?"

      "But you have not yet looked over the ground!" cries Chu-Chu, flinging out his hands.

      "I'll do that when I get there," said I. "That's my custom. It is a great mistake to go prying around beforehand, unless the job is very complicated, which, from all accounts, this is not. I