“‘Yes,’ says I, ’and are you forgetting the chap who was nabbed at Birmingham only last week?  He wasn’t exactly an amatoor.  How long do think he’ll get?’

“‘A man like that deserves what he gets,’ answers he; ’couldn’t hit a police-man at six yards.’

“‘You bloodthirsty young scoundrel,’ I says; ’do you mean you wouldn’t stick at murder?’

“‘It’s all in the game,’ says he, not in the least put out.  ’I take my risks, he takes his.  It’s no more murder than soldiering is.’

“‘It’s taking a human creature’s life,’ I says.

“‘Well,’ he says, ‘what of it?  There’s plenty more where he comes from.’

“I tried reasoning with him from time to time, but he wasn’t a sort of boy to be moved from a purpose.  His mother was the only argument that had any weight with him.  I believe so long as she had lived he would have kept straight; that was the only soft spot in him.  But unfortunately she died a couple of years later, and then I lost sight of Joe altogether.  I made enquiries, but no one could tell me anything.  He had just disappeared, that’s all.

“One afternoon, four years later, I was sitting in the coffee-room of a City restaurant where I was working, reading the account of a clever robbery committed the day before.  The thief, described as a well-dressed young man of gentlemanly appearance, wearing a short black beard and moustache, had walked into a branch of the London and Westminster Bank during the dinner-hour, when only the manager and one clerk were there.  He had gone straight through to the manager’s room at the back of the bank, taken the key from the inside of the door, and before the man could get round his desk had locked him in.  The clerk, with a knife to his throat, had then been persuaded to empty all the loose cash in the bank, amounting in gold and notes to nearly five hundred pounds, into a bag which the thief had thoughtfully brought with him.  After which, both of them—­for the thief seems to have been of a sociable disposition—­got into a cab which was waiting outside, and drove away.  They drove straight to the City:  the clerk, with a knife pricking the back of his neck all the time, finding it, no doubt, a tiresome ride.  In the middle of Threadneedle Street, the gentlemanly young man suddenly stopped the cab and got out, leaving the clerk to pay the cabman.

“Somehow or other, the story brought back Joseph to my mind.  I seemed to see him as that well-dressed gentlemanly young man; and, raising my eyes from the paper, there he stood before me.  He had scarcely changed at all since I last saw him, except that he had grown better looking, and seemed more cheerful.  He nodded to me as though we had parted the day before, and ordered a chop and a small hock.  I spread a fresh serviette for him, and asked him if he cared to see the paper.

“‘Anything interesting in it, Henry?’ says he.

“‘Rather a daring robbery committed on the Westminster Bank yesterday,’ I answers.