“As a bear.”

Quentin never tried to explain his subsequent actions; perhaps he had had a stupid evening.  He merely yawned and addressed the burglar with all possible respect.  “Do you imagine I’ll permit any guest of mine to go away hungry?  If you’ll wait till I dress, we’ll stroll over to a restaurant in the next street and get some supper.

“Police station, you mean.”

“Now, don’t be unkind, Mr. Burglar.  I mean supper for two.  I’m hungry myself, but not a bit sleepy.  Will you wait?”

“Oh, I’m in no particular hurry.”

Quentin dressed calmly.  The burglar began whistling softly.

“Are you ready?” asked Philip, putting on his overcoat and hat.

“I haven’t got me overcoat on yet,” replied the burglar, suggestively.  Quentin saw he was dressed in the chilliest of rags.  He opened a closet door and threw him a long coat.

“Ah, here is your coat.  I must have taken it from the club by mistake.  Pardon me.”

“T’anks; I never expected to git it back,” coolly replied the burglar, donning the best coat that had ever touched his person.  “You didn’t see anything of my gloves and hat in there, did you?” A hat and a pair of gloves were produced, not perfect in fit, but quite respectable.

Soberly they walked out into the street and off through the two-o’clock stillness.  The mystified burglar was losing his equanimity.  He could not understand the captor’s motive, nor could he much longer curb his curiosity.  In his mind he was fully satisfied that he was walking straight to the portals of the nearest station.  In all his career as a housebreaker, he had never before been caught, and now to be captured in such a way and treated in such a way was far past comprehension.  Ten minutes before he was looking at a stalwart figure with a leveled revolver, confidently expecting to drop with the bullet in his body from an agitated weapon.  Indeed, he encountered conditions so strange that he felt a doubt of their reality.  He had, for some peculiar and amazing reason, no desire to escape.  There was something in the oddness of the proceeding that made him wish to see it to an end.  Besides, he was quite sure the strapping young fellow would shoot if he attempted to bolt.

“This is a fairly good eating house,” observed the would-be victim as they came to an “all-nighter.”  They entered and deliberately removed their coats, the thief watching his host with shifty, even twinkling eyes.  “What shall it be, Mr. Robber?  You are hungry, and you may order the entire bill, from soup to the date line, if you like.  Pitch in.”

“Say, boss, what’s your game?” demanded the crook, suddenly.  His sharp, pinched face, with its week’s growth of beard, wore a new expression—­that of admiration.  “I ain’t such a rube that I don’t like a good t’ing even w’en it ain’t comin’ my way.  You’se a dandy, dat’s right, an’ I t’ink we’d do well in de business togedder.  Put me nex’ to yer game,”