Came a soft click, a faint creak, and a breath of cool, fragrant air as the window was cautiously opened, and a shapeless something climbed through, while Mr. Ravenslee sat motionless—­waiting.

The flashing light winked again, a small, bright disc that hovered uncertainly and finally steadied upon the carved cabinet in the corner, and the Something crept stealthily thither.  A long-drawn, breathless minute and then—­the room was flooded with brilliant light, and a figure, kneeling before the cabinet, uttered a strangled cry and leapt up, only to recoil before Mr. Ravenslee’s levelled revolver.

A pallid-faced, willowy lad, this, of perhaps seventeen, who, sinking to his knees, threw up an arm across his face, then raised both hands above his head.

“Ah, don’t shoot, mister!” he gasped.  “Oh, don’t shoot—­I got me hands up!”

“Stand up!” said Ravenslee grimly, “up with you and shutter that window—­you may have friends outside, and I’m taking no chances!  Quick—­shutter that window, I say.”

The lad struggled to his feet and, crossing to the window, fumbled the shutter into place, his ghastly face turning and turning toward the revolver that glittered in such deadly fashion in Mr. Ravenslee’s steady hand.  At length, the shutters barred, the boy turned, and moistening dry lips, spoke hoarsely and with apparent effort.

“Oh, mister—­don’t go for to—­croak a guy as—­as ain’t done nothing!”

“You broke into my house!”

“But I—­haven’t took nothin’!”

“Because I happened to catch you!”

“But—­but—­oh, sir,” stammered the boy, taking off his cap and fumbling with it while he stared wide-eyed at the threatening revolver, “I—­I ain’t a real thief—­cross me heart and hope to die, I ain’t!  Don’t croak me, sir!”

“But why in the world not?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee.  “Alone and unaided I have captured a desperate criminal, a bloodthirsty villain—­caught him in the very act of burgling a cabinet where I keep my cigars of price—­and Mr. Brimberly’s, of course!  Consequently to—­er—­croak you is my privilege as a citizen; it’s all quite just and proper—­really, I ought to croak you, you know.”

“I—­ain’t desprit, mister,” the boy pleaded, “I ain’t a reg’lar crook; dis is me first try-out—­honest it is!”

“But then I prefer to regard you as a deep-dyed desperado—­you must be quite—­er—­sixteen!  Consequently it is my duty to croak you on the spot, or hand you over to the police—­”

“No, no!” cried the boy, his tremulous hands reached out in a passion of supplication, “not d’ cops—­don’t let th’ p’lice get me.  Oh, I never took nothin’ from nobody—­lemme go!  Be a sport and let me beat it, please, sir!”

All Mr. Ravenslee’s chronic languor seemed to have returned as, leaning back in the deep-cushioned chair, he regarded this youthful malefactor with sleepy eyes, yet eyes that missed nothing of the boy’s quivering earnestness as he continued, breathlessly: