For two years The Hopper had led an exemplary life and he was keenly alive now to the joy of adventure.  His lapses of the day were unfortunate; he thought of them with regret and misgivings, but he was zestful for whatever the unknown held in store for him.  Abroad again with a pistol in his pocket, he was a lawless being, but with the difference that he was intent now upon making restitution, though in such manner as would give him something akin to the old thrill that he experienced when he enjoyed the reputation of being one of the most skillful yeggs in the country.  The successful thief is of necessity an imaginative person; he must be able to visualize the unseen and to deal with a thousand hidden contingencies.  At best the chances are against him; with all his ingenuity the broad, heavy hand of the law is likely at any moment to close upon him from some unexpected quarter.  The Hopper knew this, and knew, too, that in yielding to the exhilaration of the hour he was likely to come to grief.  Justice has a long memory, and if he again made himself the object of police scrutiny that little forty-thousand dollar affair in Maine might still be fixed upon him.

When he reached the house from whose gate he had removed the roadster with Shaver attached, he studied it with the eye of an experienced strategist.  No gleam anywhere published the presence of frantic parents bewailing the loss of a baby.  The cottage lay snugly behind its barrier of elms and shrubbery as though its young heir had not vanished into the void.  The Hopper was a deliberating being and he gave careful weight to these circumstances as he crept round the walk, in which the snow lay undisturbed, and investigated the rear of the premises.  The lattice door of the summer kitchen opened readily, and, after satisfying himself that no one was stirring in the lower part of the house, he pried up the sash of a window and stepped in.  The larder was well stocked, as though in preparation for a Christmas feast, and he passed on to the dining-room, whose appointments spoke for good taste and a degree of prosperity in the householder.

Cautious flashes of his lamp disclosed on the table a hamper, in which were packed a silver cup, plate, and bowl which at once awoke the Hopper’s interest.  Here indubitably was proof that this was the home of Shaver, now sleeping sweetly in Humpy’s bed, and this was the porridge bowl for which Shaver’s soul had yearned.  If Shaver did not belong to the house, he had at least been a visitor there, and it struck The Hopper as a reasonable assumption that Shaver had been deposited in the roadster while his lawful guardians returned to the cottage for the hamper preparatory to an excursion of some sort.  But The Hopper groped in the dark for an explanation of the calmness with which the householders accepted the loss of the child.  It was not in human nature for the parents of a youngster so handsome and in every way so delightful as Shaver to permit him to be stolen from under their very noses without making an outcry.  The Hopper examined the silver pieces and found them engraved with the name borne by the locket.  He crept through a living-room and came to a Christmas tree—­the smallest of Christmas trees.  Beside it lay a number of packages designed clearly for none other than young Roger Livingston Talbot.