The burglar lighted a cigarette.  The guarded glow of the match illuminated his salient points for a moment.  He belonged to the third type of burglars.

This third type has not yet been recognized and accepted.  The police have made us familiar with the first and second.  Their classification is simple.  The collar is the distinguishing mark.

When a burglar is caught who does not wear a collar he is described as a degenerate of the lowest type, singularly vicious and depraved, and is suspected of being the desperate criminal who stole the handcuffs out of Patrolman Hennessy’s pocket in 1878 and walked away to escape arrest.

The other well-known type is the burglar who wears a collar.  He is always referred to as a Raffles in real life.  He is invariably a gentleman by daylight, breakfasting in a dress suit, and posing as a paperhanger, while after dark he plies his nefarious occupation of burglary.  His mother is an extremely wealthy and respected resident of Ocean Grove, and when he is conducted to his cell he asks at once for a nail file and the Police Gazette.  He always has a wife in every State in the Union and fiancees in all the Territories, and the newspapers print his matrimonial gallery out of their stock of cuts of the ladies who were cured by only one bottle after having been given up by five doctors, experiencing great relief after the first dose.

The burglar wore a blue sweater.  He was neither a Raffles nor one of the chefs from Hell’s Kitchen.  The police would have been baffled had they attempted to classify him.  They have not yet heard of the respectable, unassuming burglar who is neither above nor below his station.

This burglar of the third class began to prowl.  He wore no masks, dark lanterns, or gum shoes.  He carried a 38-calibre revolver in his pocket, and he chewed peppermint gum thoughtfully.

The furniture of the house was swathed in its summer dust protectors.  The silver was far away in safe-deposit vaults.  The burglar expected no remarkable “haul.”  His objective point was that dimly lighted room where the master of the house should be sleeping heavily after whatever solace he had sought to lighten the burden of his loneliness.  A “touch” might be made there to the extent of legitimate, fair professional profits—­loose money, a watch, a jewelled stick-pin—­nothing exorbitant or beyond reason.  He had seen the window left open and had taken the chance.

The burglar softly opened the door of the lighted room.  The gas was turned low.  A man lay in the bed asleep.  On the dresser lay many things in confusion—­a crumpled roll of bills, a watch, keys, three poker chips, crushed cigars, a pink silk hair bow, and an unopened bottle of bromo-seltzer for a bulwark in the morning.

The burglar took three steps toward the dresser.  The man in the bed suddenly uttered a squeaky groan and opened his eyes.  His right hand slid under his pillow, but remained there.