ything out
until the first of December. Then I'll resign, and come to the
Salamander the first of the new year--possibly before that."

"How so?"

"Oh, I've a notion that when I resign, Mr. Wintermuth will say that I
needn't remain the customary thirty days; I fancy he'll let me out at
once."

A smile, none too pleasant, crossed the lips of the Guardian official.
Business was business, of course, and a man was entitled to use his
personal influence to advance himself; but he scarcely relished the
idea of practically looting the company for which he had worked for a
good many years. O'Connor's fiber was not of the tenderest, but he had
his intervals of conscientiousness, when his brain saw the correct
ethics, even if his hand did not always follow.

Mr. Murch got up from his chair.

"I'll call you on the phone Monday, after our meeting," he said.

"I shall be at the office until five."

They parted.

Criminologists assert, from many years' observation of many men in many
lands, that no man positively desires to become a criminal. So little
does the average man wish it, that it is usually difficult, even in the
case of the most confirmed lawbreaker, to persuade him that he actually
is or has been criminal in intent, no matter what his acts may have
been.

This state of affairs is equally true in those higher grades of society
where instincts are less passionate. Just as the man who kills his
king or his father holds himself absolutely innocent of any wrong
intent, so the unhappy parasite who steals his wife's earnings for
drink, or the bookkeeper who makes away with the contents of the firm's
cash drawer in order to play the races, believes himself to be
unfortunate only, and more sinned against than sinning. No matter how
much of a scoundrel a man may be, his self-analysis brings him far
short of the correct degree of turpitude.

Mr. O'Connor was not a villain or a criminal. He was not, according to
the standard of many, a dishonest man. But he was not an honest one.
He had several weaknesses, the chief among which was venal ambition;
and of courage, that quality which makes all other qualities seem just
a little tawdry and futile, he had none except in a broad, physical
sense. He was not, of course, afraid of the dark, but he was decidedly
afraid of James Wintermuth; and when on Monday noon the telephone rang
at the call of Mr. Murch, it is not too much to say that he was
momentarily shaken.

"Su