“Perfectly.  It’s a wonderful invention,” said Mr. Yollop, who had approached to within four or five feet of the speaker and was bending over to afford him every facility for planting his words squarely upon the disc.  “Speak in the same tone of voice that you would employ if I were about thirty feet away and perfectly sound of hearing.  Just imagine, if you can, that I am out in the hall, with the door open, and you are carrying on a conversation with me at that—­”

“I’ve said all I want to say,” growled the other sullenly.

“What is your name?”

“None of your damn business.”

Mr. Yollop was silent for a moment.  Then he inquired steadily: 

“Have you any recollection of receiving a blow on the jaw, and subsequently lying on the flat of your back with my knees jouncing up and down on your stomach while your bump of amativeness was being roughly and somewhat regularly pounded against the wall in response to a certain nervous and uncontrollable movement of my hands which happened to be squeezing your windpipe so tightly that your tongue hung out and—­”

“You bet I remember it!” ruefully.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Yollop, “what is your name?”

“Jones.”

“What?”

“I thought you said you could hear with that thing!”

“I heard you say Jones quite distinctly, but why can’t you answer my question?  It was civil enough, wasn’t it?”

“Well,” said the crook, still decidedly uncertain as to the expression in Mr. Yollop’s eye, “if you insist on a civil answer, it’s Smilk.”

“Smith?”

“No, not Smith,” hastily and earnestly; “Smilk,—­S-m-i-l-k.”

“Smilk?”

“Smilk.”

“Extraordinary name.  I’ve never heard it before, have you?”

The rascal blinked.  “Sure.  It was my father’s name before me, and my—­”

“Look me in the eye!”

“I am lookin’ you in the eye.  It’s Smilk,—­Cassius Smilk.”

“Sounds convincing,” admitted Mr. Yollop.  “Nobody would take the name of Cassius in vain, I am sure.  As a sensible, discriminating thief, you would not deliberately steal a name like Cassius, now would you?”

“Well, you see, they call me Cash for short,” explained Smilk.  “That’s something I can steal with a clear conscience.”

“I perceive you are recovering your wits, Mr. Smilk.  You appear to be a most ingenuous rogue.  Have you ever tried writing the book for a musical comedy?”

“A—­what?”

“A musical comedy.  A forty-legged thing you see on Broadway.”

Mr. Smilk pondered.  “No, sir,” he replied, allowing himself a prideful leer; “if I do say it as shouldn’t, I’m an honest thief.”

“Bless my soul,” cried Mr. Yollop delightedly; “you get brighter every minute.  Perhaps you have at one time or another conducted a humorous column for a Metropolitan newspaper?”

“Well, I’ve done my share towards fillin’ up the ‘lost’ column,” said Mr. Smilk modestly.  “Say, if we’re going to keep up this talkfest much longer, I got to let my hands down.  The blood’s runnin’ out of ’em.  What are you goin’ to do with me?  Keep me sittin’ here till morning?”