“That’s what I want you to tell me—­that’s why I have requested this interview.  I want you to examine me, Sir Horace, to put me through those tests you use to determine the state of mind of the mentally fit and mentally unfit; I want to know if it is my fault that I am what I am, and if it is myself I have to fight in future, or the devil that lives within me.  I’m tired of wallowing in the mire.  A woman’s eyes have lit the way to heaven for me.  I want to climb up to her, to win her, to be worthy of her, and to stand beside her in the light.”

“Her?  What ’her’?”

“That’s my business, Mr. Narkom, and I’ll take no man into my confidence regarding that.”

“Yes, my friend, but ’Margot’—­how about her?”

“I’m done with her!  We broke last night, when I returned and she learned—­never mind what she learned!  I’m done with her—­done with the lot of them.  My life is changed forever.”

“In the name of Heaven, man, who and what are you?”

“Cleek—­just Cleek; let it go at that,” he made reply.  “Whether it’s my name or not is no man’s business; who I am, what I am, whence I came, is no man’s business either.  Cleek will do—­Cleek of the Forty Faces.  Never mind the past; my fight is with the future, and so—­examine me, Sir Horace, and let me know if I or Fate’s to blame for what I am.”

Sir Horace did.

“Absolutely Fate,” he said, when, after a long examination, the man put the question to him again.  “It is the criminal brain fully developed, horribly pronounced.  God help you, my poor fellow; but a man simply could not be other than a thief and a criminal with an organ like that.  There’s no hope for you to escape your natural bent except by death.  You can’t be honest.  You can’t rise—­you never will rise; it’s useless to fight against it!”

“I will fight against it!  I will rise!  I will!  I will!  I will!” he cried out vehemently.  “There is a way to put such craft and cunning to account; a way to fight the devil with his own weapons and crush him under the weight of his own gifts, and that way I’ll take!”

“Mr. Narkom”—­he whirled and walked toward the superintendent, his hand outstretched, his eager face aglow—­“Mr. Narkom, help me!  Take me under your wing.  Give me a start—­give me a chance—­give me a lift on the way up!”

“Good heaven, man, you—­you don’t mean—?”

“I do—­I do!  So help me heaven, I do.  All my life I’ve fought against the law—­now let me switch over and fight with it.  I’m tired of being Cleek, the thief; Cleek, the burglar.  Make me Cleek, the detective, and let us work together, hand in hand, for a common cause and for the public good.  Will you, Mr. Narkom?  Will you?”

“Will I?  Won’t I!” said Narkom, springing forward and gripping his hand.  “Jove! what a detective you will make.  Bully boy!  Bully boy!”

“It’s a compact, then?”

“It’s a compact—­Cleek.”