“They were in the crook of St. Stanislaus’ arm.”  I tried to keep my voice steady.  “I was praying—­when you were gone.”  Somehow, I did not find it easy to explain to him.  “And ...  I remembered....  And I brought them with me ... so in case you also ... remembered—­” I could go no further.  I broke into a sort of groaning cry:  “Oh, John, John!  My son, my son!”

“Steady!” said he.  “Of course you remembered, parson.  It’s the only way.  Didn’t I tell her there’s always a way out?  Well, here it is!” His funny, twisted smile came to his lips; it twisted the heart in my breast.  No thought of himself, of what this thing might mean to him, seemed to cross his mind.

“I prayed,” said I, almost sobbing, “I prayed.  And, John, there stood St. Stanislaus—­” I stopped again, choking.

He nodded, understandingly.  He was methodically spreading out the not unbeautiful instruments.  And as he picked them up one by one, handling them with his strong and expert fingers and testing each with a hawk-eyed scrutiny, a most curious and subtle change stole over the Butterfly Man.

I felt as if I were witnessing the evocation of something superhuman.  Horrified and fascinated, I saw what might be called the apotheosis of Slippy McGee, so far above him was it, come back and subtly and awfully blend with my scientist.  It was as if two strong and powerful individualities had deliberately joined forces to forge a more vital being than either, since the training, knowledge, skill and intellect of both would be his to command.  If such a man as this ever stepped over the deadline he would not be merely “the slickest cracksman in America”; he would be one of the master criminals of the earth.  I fancy he must have felt this intoxicating new access of power, for there emanated from him something of a fierce and exalted delight.  A potentiality, as yet neither good nor evil, he suggested a spiritual and physical dynamo.

He gave a tigerish purr of pleasure over the tools, handling them with the fingers of the artist and admiring them with the eyes of the connoisseur.  “The best I could get.  All made to order.  Tested blue steel.  I never kicked at the price, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what this layout cost in cold cash.  But they paid.  Good stuff always pays in the long run.  It was lucky I winded the cops on that last job, or I’d have had to leave them.  As it was, I just had time to grab them up before I hit the trail for the skyline.  They don’t need anything but a little rubbing—­a saint’s elbow must be a snug berth.  I wish I had some juice, though.”

“Juice?”

“Nitroglycerine,” very gently, as to a child.  “It does not make very much noise and it saves time when you’re in a hurry—­as you generally are, in this business,” he smiled at me quizzically.  “Not that one can’t get along without it.”  The swift fingers paused for a fraction of a second to give a steel drill an affectionate pat.  “I used to know