The exigencies of a difficult profession had made Soapy Molloy a quick thinker. Frequently in the course of a busy life he had found himself in positions where a split second was all that was allowed him for forming a complete plan of action. His trained mind answered to the present emergency like a machine. “You certainly did startle me,” he said bluffly, in his best Thomas G. Gunn manner. “You startled the daylights out of me. So here you are at last, Mr. Shotter.” “Yes, here I am.” “I have been waiting quite some little time. I’m afraid you caught me on the point of going to sleep.” He chuckled, as a man will when the laugh is on him. “I should imagine,” said Sam, “that it would take a smart man to catch you asleep.” Mr. Molloy chuckled again. “Just what the boys used to say of me in Denver City.” He paused and looked at Sam a little anxiously. “Say, you do remember me, Mr. Shotter?” “I certainly do.” “You remember my calling here the other day to see my old home?” “I remember you before that--when you were in Sing Sing.” He turned away to light the gas, and Mr. Molloy was glad of the interval for thought afforded by this action. “Sing Sing?” “Yes.” “You were never there.” “I went there to see a show, in which you took an important part. I forget what your number was.” “And what of it?” “Eh?” Mr. Molloy drew himself up with considerable dignity. “What of it?” he repeated. “What if I was for a brief period--owing to a prejudiced judge and a packed jury--in the place you mention? I decline to have the fact taken as a slur on my character. You are an American, Mr. Shotter, and you know that there is unfortunately a dark side to American politics. My fearless efforts on behalf of the party of reform and progress brought me into open hostility with a gang of unscrupulous men, who did not hesitate to have me arrested on a trumped-up charge and----” “All this,” said Sam, “would go a lot stronger with me if I hadn’t found you burgling my house.” It would have been difficult to say whether the expression that swept over Mr. Molloy’s fine face was more largely indignation or amazement. “Burgling your house? Are you insane? I called here in the hope of seeing you, was informed that you were not at home, and was invited by your manservant, a most civil fellow, to await your return. Burgling your house, indeed! If I were, would you have found me lying on the sofa?” “Hash let you in?” Such was the magnetic quality of the personality of one who had often sold large blocks of shares in nonexistent oil wells to Scotchmen, that Sam was beginning in spite of himself to be doubtful. “If Hash is the name of your manservant, most certainly he let me in. He admitted me by the front door in the perfectly normal and conventional manner customary when gentlemen pay calls.” “Where is Hash?” “Why ask me?” Sam went to the door. The generous indignation of his visitor had caused him to waver, but it had not altogether convinced him.