His hard and suspicious eyes bored into me. And as I held his glance, a hint of wonder and amazement crept into his face. "God A'mighty! I believe him!" he gasped. And then, as if ashamed of that real feeling, he scowled. "Say, if you're really on the level, I guess you'd better not be flashing the name of Slippy McGee around promiscuous," he suggested presently. "It won't do either you or me any good, see? And say, parson,--forget Percy and Algy. How was I to know you'd be so white? And look here: I did know a gink named John Flint, once. Only he was called Reddy, because he'd got such a blazing red head and whiskers. He's croaked, so he wouldn't mind me using his moniker, seeing it's not doing him any good now." "Let us agree upon John Flint," I decided. "Help yourself," he agreed, equably. Clélie, with wrath and disapproval written upon every stiffened line, brought him his broth, which he took with a better grace than I had yet witnessed. He even added a muttered word of thanks. "It's funny," he reflected, when the yellow woman had left the room with the empty bowl, "it's sure funny, but d'ye know, I'm lots easier in my mind, knowing you know, and not having to think up a hard-luck gag to hand out to you? I hate like hell to have to lie, except of course when I need a smooth spiel for the cops. I guess I'll snooze a bit now," he added, as I rose to leave the room. And as I reached the door: "Parson?" "Well?" "Why--er--come in a bit to-night, will you? That is, if you've got time. And look here: don't you get the notion in your bean I'm just some little old two-by-four guy of a yegg or some poor nut of a dip. I'm _not_. Why, I've been the whole show _and_ manager besides. Yep, I'm Slippy McGee himself." He paused, to let this sink into my consciousness. I must confess that I was more profoundly impressed than even he had any idea of. And then, magnanimously, he added: "You're sure some white man, parson." "Thank you, John Flint," said I, with due modesty. Heaven knows why I should have been pleased and hopeful, but I was. My guest was a criminal; he hadn't shown the slightest sign of compunction or of shame; instead, he had betrayed a brazen pride. And yet--I felt hopeful. Although I knew I was tacitly concealing a burglar, my conscience remained clear and unclouded, and I had a calm intuitive assurance of right. So deeply did I feel this that when I went over to the church I placed before St. Stanislaus a small lamp full of purest olive oil, which is expensive. I felt that he deserved some compensation for hiding that package under his sheaf of lilies.