The Closing Net. Henry Cottrell Rowland

didn't you shoot at me, last night. You started to, then stopped."

      "I'm not a gun man," I answered.

      "It wasn't that," said he. "You knew who I was."

      "I didn't until I saw your face," I answered. "Then I couldn't help but guess. The girl shoved the gun into my hand."

      "I saw that," said he. "Do you know my name?"

      "I suppose you are John Cuttynge," I answered.

      "Yes," said he, "I'm John. What's your name, old chap?"

      "Frank Clamart is what they called me," I muttered. "Old Tante Fi-Fi came from Clamart and named me after her birthplace. Why?"

      "Brothers ought to know each other's names," said John.

      ​"And you would like to claim me as a brother?" I asked, sarcastically.

      "Drop it, Frank," said John. "See here … you look rather gone. What do you say to a drink?"

      "I could do with one."

      He turned and banged on the door, then when the jailer came sent him out for a bottle of champagne. I noticed that his French was as good as mine.

      "My dear chap," said John, presently, "I don't pretend to be very bright, but I know something of your history and that you have been forced into all this business by force of circumstance. You've never had a square deal. There's not a wrong line in your face. Won't you loosen up a bit and tell me some thing about yourself?"

      There was something mighty winning in the tone of his voice and before I realised it I was telling him the story of my life. The jailer came back with the champagne and a couple of glasses and we had a drink and a cigarette while I was spinning my yarn. John listened without interrupting.

      "Look here, Frank," said he, when I had finished, "we must get you out of this."

      "You're mighty good," I answered, "but there's nothing you can do. I'm an old offender—a recidiviste, all catalogued and bertilloned. I've done my little trick in Cayenne, and this time it's au bat d' Afrique for me."

      "I'm not so sure," says he. "I've got some strong influence in official and diplomatic circles. Suppose I manage it, will you give me your word to live strictly on the square?"

      ​"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 ​into this man's house—not knowing who he was, of course—to steal his wife's jewels. He had surprised us, like I told you, and to save Léontine I would have shot him dead only that his resemblance to me told me who he was. In spite of this, here was the man that I'd gone to rob going my bond, getting me out of a life sentence perhaps, and then, insisting on my living at his house until I got a fresh start on the level!

      But I balked dead.

      "That don't go, John," said I. "My nerve never failed me yet, but it ain't up to meeting your wife."

      "Then get it up," says he, with his good-natured smile. "Edith is the one who's doing the whole thing."

      "What's that?" I cried.

      "Yes, old chap. She's the one you've got to thank. You see, Frank, Edith has all the money. Our father died bankrupt, otherwise you would not have been a burglar. I could never make a dollar to save my life, though I hope to pretty soon; and that's something I want to talk to you about."

      But I shook my head. You see, I had thought all the time that John was a rich man in his own right; that he might have saved something from the wreck when the old man went broke and blew his brains out; then made good investments and pulled out well off. Looking at it that way, it was all right if he wanted to pay up a score for the father of us both. But to be an object of charity to a woman who owed me nothing but the good chance of losing her jewels—that wouldn't do.

      ​John saw what was passing in my mind and laid his hand on my shoulder.

      "Come, Frank," says he, "you'll feel differently about it when you've met her. She's not a usual woman, old chap; she's a sort of angel on earth. You want to thank her, anyway, don't you? Come, jump in."

      So in I got, but as we moved off I said:

      "What will your friends say when they know that your half-brother is—or was—a crook?"

      "They will never know it," he answered. "I've taken care of that. These people at the Santé think it was a domestic scandal; an effort to get possession of some family jewels that you laid claim to. The prefecture knows, but that bureau knows lots of things that would set Society by the ears if they ever got out. You are under bond and under observation to some extent, but what does that matter, since you've chucked the old game? I've got something in view for you now, but we'll discuss that later."

      Before many minutes the car drew up in front of the same big gate that I had scaled that night while Ivan and Chu-Chu and Jeff and the girls waited in the motor to see a demonstration of snappy American methods—and came so near getting pinched, doing it. We crossed the garden, and let me tell you, sir, my heart was beating a lot faster than it did the night I first laid eyes on that old, Renaissance house.

      "Madame is in the studio," said the maître d'hôtel as he opened the door. He gave me a quick, curious look, for at first glance the resemblance between John and myself is almost that of twins. I ​was dressed like a swell, for John had brought me down some of his own things, I having been in evening clothes when pinched the night of Léontine's supper party.

      "Let's go out to the studio," said John. "Edith is at work on her Salon picture."

      So out we went, and John rapped at the door of a pretty little vine-covered building, placed well clear of the big trees. From inside a clear voice called: "Entrez."

      My friend, I shall never forget that picture; not the one on the easel, but Edith as she turned to greet us. You know her, of course, and appreciate what a lovely creature she is, with her tall, queenly figure and wonderful great eyes. They are not woman's eyes; they are more the eyes of some splendid archangel guarding the gates of Paradise; clear and steadfast and deep as Heaven itself. She was in her paint-blouse, standing in front of a big canvas, a portrait, and posing in the middle of the studio was an uncommonly beautiful girl in evening dress and a great rope of gorgeous pearls.

      Edith laid down her palette and brushes and came forward with a smile on her sweet mouth and a tinge of colour in her cheeks.

      "Welcome, Frank," she said,