If "Marse David" said he
was there, he _was_ there; that is all there could be to it. "He
suttinly mus' be thah, sah. But I 'spec's he mussa fo'got to tell
anybody 'bout hit, sah."
"Ask Jeff to call me early in the morning, Pete," said David. "Good
night."
"Good night, Marse David."
The boy went out, gently closing the door behind him. Almost instantly
it was reopened.
"What now, Pete?" demanded David, who, with his back to the door, was
advancing to the mahogany bureau across the room. He came in line with
the tall mirror that surmounted the chest of drawers. His fingers
stopped suddenly in the light task of removing a pin from his scarf.
Just inside the door stood Artful Dick Cronk, a genial smile
reflecting itself in the mirror which confronted the other. David
stared unbelievingly for a few seconds and then whirled to face the--
but it was not an apparition.
The lean, cunning visage of the pickpocket was illumined by the never-
to-be-forgotten smile of guilelessness that so ably stood him in hand
in moments of peril. The humor of it gradually succumbed to the
satirical leer that always came to translate his strange sophistry
into something more expressive than mere words.
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