go no further. I broke into a sort of groaning cry: "Oh, John, John!
My son, my son!"

"Steady!" said he. "Of course you remembered, parson. It's the only
way. Didn't I tell her there's always a way out? Well, here it is!"
His funny, twisted smile came to his lips; it twisted the heart in my
breast. No thought of himself, of what this thing might mean to him,
seemed to cross his mind.

"I prayed," said I, almost sobbing, "I prayed. And, John, there stood
St. Stanislaus--" I stopped again, choking.

He nodded, understandingly. He was methodically spreading out the not
unbeautiful instruments. And as he picked them up one by one, handling
them with his strong and expert fingers and testing each with a
hawk-eyed scrutiny, a most curious and subtle change stole over the
Butterfly Man.

I felt as if I were witnessing the evocation of something superhuman.
Horrified and fascinated, I saw what might be called the apotheosis
of Slippy McGee, so far above him was it, come back and subtly and
awfully blend with my scientist. It was as if two strong and powerful
individualities had deliberately joined forces to forge a more vital
being than either, since the training, knowledge, skill and intellect
of both would be his to command. If such a man as _this_ ever stepped
over the deadline he would not be merely "the slickest cracksman in
America"; he would be one of the master criminals of the earth. I
fancy he must have felt this intoxicating new access of power, for
there emanated from him something of a fierce and exalted delight. A
potentiality, as yet neither good nor evil, he suggested a spiritual
and physical dynamo.

He gave a tigerish purr of pleasure over the tools, handling them with
the fingers of the artist and admiring them with the eyes of the
connoisseur. "The best I could get. All made to order. Tested blue
steel. I never kicked at the price, and you wouldn't believe me if I
told you what this layout cost in cold cash. But they paid. Good stuff
always pays in the long run. It was lucky I winded the cops on that
last job, or I'd have had to leave them. As it was, I just had time to
grab them up before I hit the trail for the skyline. They don't need
anything but a little rubbing--a saint's elbow must be a snug berth. I
wish I had some juice, though."

"Juice?"

"Nitroglycerine," very gently, as to a child. "It does not make very
much noise and it saves time when you're in a hurry--as you generally
are, in th