“Never mind the Latin for it,” said Bob. “Plain Anglo-Saxon will do. Call me a thief.” “It’s an ugly word,” said the other reluctantly, “and—well, I don’t wish to be hasty. My father always told me to help a man whenever I could; not to shove him down. And maybe—” He paused. There was really a nice expression on his strong face. “Oh, you think I may be only a young offender—a juvenile in crime?” exclaimed Bob bitterly. “The words are your own,” observed the other. “To tell you the truth,” seriously, “I hardly know what to think. It is all too extraordinary—too unexpected. I’ll have to ponder on it. The profs, at college always said I had the champion slow brain. The peculiar part to me is,” that puzzled look returning to his heavy features, “I can’t understand why you’re making people think what they do of you? Frankly, I don’t believe you’re ‘dippy.’ You were always rather—just what is the word?—‘mercurial’—yes; that will do. But your head looks right enough to me.” “What’s the Latin for ‘Thank you’?” said Bob. “Do you really think this is a trivial matter?” asked the other, bending a stronger glance upon his visitor. “I believe you are somewhat obligated to me. Please bear that in mind.” With quiet dignity. “As I was saying, your conduct since coming here, seems to baffle explanation—that is, the right one. I wonder what is your ‘lay,’ anyhow? What’s the idea? I like to be able to grasp people.” Forcefully. “And you escape me. I can’t get at the tangible in you. Nor”—with a sudden quick glance—“can Miss Gerald—” “Suppose we leave her name out,” said Bob sharply. “You’ve done me a favor which I ought not to have accepted. And I tell you frankly I’d rather have accepted it from any one else in the world.” “I think I understand,” replied the other quietly, with no show of resentment on his heavy features. “Have a cigar?” Indicating a box on the table. “I’d rather not.” “Very well!” For some moments Bob sat in moody silence. Then suddenly he got up. “Am I to be permitted to return to my room?” he asked. “I believe I told you I would consider your case,” said the hammer-thrower. And Bob passed out. He regained his room without mishap, which rather surprised him. He almost expected to be intercepted by the monocle-man but nothing of the kind happened. CHAPTER XVI—PLAYING WITH BOB It took a great deal of courage for Bob to go down to breakfast the next morning. In fact, he had never done anything before in his life that demanded so much courage. He pictured his entrance, anticipating what would happen; he didn’t try to deceive himself. The monocle-man would tap him on the shoulder. “You are my prisoner,” he would say. And then it would be “exit” for Bob amid the exclamations and in the face of the accumulated staring of the company.