“All right. ’Fess ahead.” “Well, I don’t suppose I really and truly—deep down, you know—actually ever did quite think you were a regular burglar. I guess it was the dramatic situation that appealed to me. I’ve often thought I had ‘histrionic ability’ and you did make such a big, bold, handsome, darling make-believe burglar to play with, I just couldn’t resist.” “I understand!” said Bob. “I guess—deep down—I guessed as much.” And rang off. Bob went back to the fireplace. Was he dreaming now or only thinking? Dolly’s voice had taken him back to Mrs. Ralston’s, and the coals now framed a face. He looked quickly from them, his eyes following the smoke of his pipe. But the smoke now framed the face. Bob half-closed his eyes an instant, then resolutely he laid down his pipe and went to bed. Dad had closed the rather spacious old-fashioned house when he went away, and a momentary feeling of loneliness assailed Bob, as he realized there was no other person in the place, but he fought it down. Work was his incentive now—hard work— The next day he learned they had lodged the promoter in jail. The big men had gone gunning for him, and, as usual, they got him. They got the “Utopian,” too. They took that because there wasn’t anything else to take. Incidentally, they discredited the broker’s statement that no one but a buzzard would go near it. Or, maybe, some of the big men were buzzards in disguise. Anyhow, they had the Utopian on their hands, and after they had settled with the promoter who had dared cross the trail of the big interests in his operations, they poked their fingers into Utopian and prodded it and examined it more carefully and discovered that with “honest judicial management” and a proper application of more funds that which had been but an odorous prospect might be converted into a “property.” The promoter had taken funds which he shouldn’t so he was out of their way, until he got pardoned. The Utopian accordingly now began to soar. There were plenty of people who would sniff at it in its new aspect, and take a bite, too. A shoal of speculators wanted to get aboard. That “honest management” was a bait; that “property” probability became a “sure thing.” Big names were juggled in little offices. The usual thing happened—just one of those common occurrences hardly worth describing—only later it would probably be included in a congressional investigation and there would be a few reverberations at Albany. Bob pulled out in about two days. “How’d you know?” said the broker. “Fellow feeling. Been called a thief and a crazy man, myself.” “What you want to buy now? The next rankest thing I know of is—” Bob shook his head. “Never again. Good-by forever.”