His accent was that of a cultivated gentleman.  Pinton, somewhat assured, dropped back in his seat, and, John passing by just then, more beer was ordered.

“Hear me before you condemn me,” said the odd young man.  “My name is Blastion and I am a burglar by profession.  When I saw you the other night, at work on the premises next door to me, I was struck by your refined face.  I said to myself:  ’At last the profession is being recruited by gentlemen, men of culture, men of refinement.  At last a profitable, withal risky, pursuit is being dignified, nay, graced, by the proper sort of person.’  And I saluted you in a happy, haphazard fashion, and then you flew the coop.  Pardon my relapse into the vernacular.”

Pinton felt that it was time to speak.

“Pardon me, if I interrupt you, Mr. Blastion; but I fear we are not meeting on equal ground.  You take me for a—­for a man of your profession.  Indeed, sir, you are mistaken.  When you discovered me last Saturday night I was in the pantry of Mrs. Hallam, my boarding-house keeper, searching for pie.  I am not a burglar—­pardon my harsh expression; I am, instead, an organist by profession.”

The pallor of the burglar’s countenance testified to the gravity of his feeling.  He stared and blushed, looked apprehensively at the various groups of domino players in the back room, then, pulling himself together, he beckoned to melancholy John, and said:—­

“Johann, two more beers, please.  Yes?”

Pinton became interested.  There was something appealing in the signal the man flashed from his eyes when he realized that he had unbosomed himself to a perfect stranger, and not to a member of his beloved guild.  The organist put his hand on the man’s arm and said—­faint memories of flatulent discourses from the Reverend Bulgerly coming to his aid:  “Be not alarmed, my friend.  I will not betray you.  I am a musician, but I respect art ever, even when it reveals itself in manifold guises.”

Pinton felt that he was a man of address, a fellow of some wit; his confidential and rather patronizing pose moved his companion, who slyly grimaced.

“So you are an organist and not a member of the noble Knights of the Centrebit and Jimmy?” he asked rather sarcastically.

“Yes,” admitted Pinton, “I am an organist, and an organist who would fain become a pianist.”  The other started.

“I am a pianist myself, and yet I cannot say that I would like to play the organ.”

“You are a pianist?” said Pinton, in a puzzled voice.

“Well, why not?  I studied in Paris, and I suppose my piano technic stood me in good stead in my newer profession.  Just look at my hands if you doubt my word.”

Aghast, the organist examined the shapely hands before him.  Without peradventure of a doubt they were those of a pianist, an expert pianist, and one who had studied assiduously.  He was stupefied.  A burglar and a pianist!  What next?