mes. And mark you, I didn't say
_judgment_. Let us hope that this is one of the times when faith in
intuition will be justified."

Later, when he had had time to examine the work progressing under the
flexible fingers of the silent workman, he withdrew with more respect.

"I suppose he's all right, if you think so, father. But I'd watch out
for him, anyway," he advised.

"That is exactly what I intend to do."

"Rather he fell into your hands than mine. Better for him," said the
judge, briefly. Then he launched into an intimate talk of Laurence,
and in thus talking of the boy's future, forgot my helper.

That was it, exactly. The man was so unobtrusive without in the least
being furtive. Had so little to say; attended so strictly to his own
business, and showed himself so utterly and almost inhumanly
uninterested in anybody else's, that he kept in the background. He
was there, and people knew it; they were, in a sense, interested in
him, but not curious about him.

One morning in early autumn--he had been with us then some eight or
nine months--I went over to his rooms with a New York newspaper in my
hand. It had news that set my heart to pounding sickeningly--news that
at once simplified and yet complicated matters. I hesitated as to
whether or not I should tell him, but decided that whatever effect
that news might produce, I would deal with him openly, above board,
and always with truth. He must act and judge for himself and with his
eyes open. On my part there should be no concealment.

The paper stated that the body of a man found floating in the East
River had been positively identified by the police as that of Slippy
McGee. That the noted crook had gotten back into New York through the
cunning dragnet so carefully spread for him was another proof of his
daring and dexterity. How he met the dark fate which set him adrift,
battered and dreadful, in the East River, was another of those
underworld crimes that remain unsolved. Cunning and dangerous,
mysterious in his life, baffling all efforts to get at him, he was as
evilly mysterious in his death. There was only one thing sure--that
this dead wretch with the marks of violence upon him was Slippy McGee;
and since his breath had ceased, the authorities could breathe easier.

He read it deliberately; then re-read it, and sat and stared at the
paper. A slow grim smile came to his lips, and he took his chin in his
hand, musingly. The eyes narrowed, the face darken