“Really,” he proceeded, “I have thoroughly enjoyed this evening. Not only have I met a most charming lady, but I have been able to prove to her that the terms gentleman and burglar may be synonomous.” He now began on the cake. I pushed the cracker jar toward him. “Try them,” I observed. Still smiling indulgently, and talking, he took out one of the crackers and began to nibble on it. It was _very dry_. I rose, and in an absent-minded manner placed on the table the remains of a bottle of rare old Burgundy, which had been opened the day before. “Now, really,” he prattled, “I'm a very harmless man five months out of six--I never steal unless other means fail, or a tailor's bill comes due. I'm a respectable citizen and--a church member in good standing when I'm not on one of my professional tours. I took up burglary more as a resource than from necessity. Candidly speaking, now, _am_ I a ruffian?” [Illustration: 0302] “No!” I replied, looking directly at him. “On the contrary, you are a very fine-looking man.” A glow of vanity spread over his face. I poured out a glass of the Burgundy and pushed it toward him. “England to Wales!” he cried with gallantry. “I don't generally drink,” he added, “but these crackers make me thirsty.” “If I could only find a wife suited to my tastes,” he mused, “such a woman as _you_ are, by George! I'd give up aesthetic burglary and settle down to quiet domestic bliss.” He looked questioningly at me. “If”--he hesitated--“you could be sure I would abandon my profession--would you--do you think you could--condone my past and--marry me?” “That is a matter for consideration,” I replied. He helped himself to another cracker. “Your proposal is so startlingly unique,” I continued, “to marry one's burglar! Really it is quite a joke.” “Isn't it?” he chuckled, evidently enjoying the idea of the oddity. “We are kindred spirits!” he exclaimed, convivially, but was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing. Seizing the bottle of Burgundy, he drained the only drop or two left. “I think, maybe, there's another bottle down in the cellar,” I cried, artlessly. “I'll go down and see--I feel thirsty myself.” “We will descend together,” exclaimed my burglar, gallantly taking the candle from my hand and following me to the door leading to the cellar steps. We descended the steps chatting pleasantly--he discoursing on matrimony, I answering rather vaguely, but measuring the distance to the wine bins by my eye. They were at the far end of the cellar, and were five in number, each large enough to hold a quarter of a ton of coal. Before the furthest one I paused. [Illustration: 0300] “Here,” I said, “is the brand we are looking for.” I raised the heavy lid and looked in. “I will hold the candle,” I observed; “will you get the bottle? I can hardly reach it.”