As for the burglar he kept up a running fire of talk about supposed friends of ours.
“Rather sad, that accident to Tom’s nephew, wasn’t it?” said he.
“I hadn’t heard of it,” said Ethel, while I admitted a like ignorance.
“Is that so? Tom is no letter writer. Why little Sanderson fell down an elevator shaft and ripped all the buttons off his shoes.”
He said this so seriously that it was all Ethel could do to keep a straight face.
“And Mary has finally decided to accept Jim Larkins. Seventeen times she had rejected him. Do you think they’ll be happy?”
“I hope they will,” said I, and then to make conversation I said,
“What’s become of Ed. Cortelyou?”
“I’m sorry to say,” said the burglar, with a long face, “that Ed.’s gone to the bad. It doesn’t pay to trust a young man with unlimited money. If I ever succeed in amassing a fortune—not that I feel especially encouraged just now—but if I ever do, I will tie it up so that Charley can not play ducks and drakes with it.”
“By the way, do you expect Charley to follow your profession?” said Ethel wickedly and unexpectedly.