"And just why should I closet myself with a burglar?" inquired the astute Orrie, staring at me with the utmost insolence. Yet I could see that at least the precision of my articulation was puzzling him a bit. "That's asinine," I retorted. "I'm not a burglar, and you ought to know it." To my astonishment, a little tripartite ripple of laughter greeted this statement. "Then what are you?" asked the incredulous Orrie. I knew there was no further use beating about the bush. "Yes, who are you?" demanded the other youth. He still held the magazine-revolver balanced in his right hand. The truth had to come out. "I'm Witter Kerfoot," I told them, as steadily as I could. "Kerfoot, of Gramercy Park West." "What number?" I gave him the number. I could see the trio exchange glances; they were plainly glances of amusement. My young friends, I could see, were enjoying a home melodrama, a melodrama in which I was obviously the most foolish of villains. I began to feel a good deal like a phonograph grinding out a comic record. "And with that face!" ejaculated the man called Orrie. The quiet contempt of his glance caused me to shift about, so I could catch a glimpse of myself in the Venetian mirror between the book-shelves. That glimpse was indeed a startling one. I had quite forgotten the transit through the coal-hole. I could not even remember how or when I broke my hat-crown. I had remained as unconscious of the scratch across my cheek as I was of the garret cobwebs that festooned my clothing. I saw as I peeped into the mirror only a sickly-hued and grimy-looking footpad with dirty hands and a broken hat. It was no wonder they laughed. My environment for the last hour had not been one that tended toward consciousness of attire. I was about to remove my disgracefully disfiguring headgear when the younger man swung about on me with the Savage thrust point-blank in my face. "Don't try any of that!" he gasped. "You keep up those hands." The whole situation was so beside the mark, was so divorced from the sterner problem confronting both them and myself, that it dispirited and angered me. "We've had about enough of this tommy-rot!" I protested. "Yes, we'll cut out the tommy-rot, and get him tied," proclaimed the man with the Colt. "Then search him first," prompted the young man. "Here, Caddy, take Orrie's Colt while he goes through him," he commanded, in the chest-tones of a newly-acquired savagery, "and if he tries to move, wing him!" The girl, wide-eyed and reluctant, took the heavy revolver. Then Orrie advanced on me, though in an altogether wary and tight-lipped manner. To continue my protests, I saw, would be only to waste my breath. There was nothing to do but submit to the farce.