“I love to study the history of philanthropists,” I said. “Yours thrilled me. I couldn't stop till I got to this minute. You're just beginning a new chapter, and I want you to give it a heading right now. Shall it be 'Prison Life' or 'In the Way of Reform'?”
Again the man spoke.
“As God's my witness, I want to live honest,” said he.
“Then I'll try to help you.”
I have always thought with admiration of his calmness as he looked down at me with a face that said, “I surrender,” and a tongue that said:
“May I use your bath-room for one minute?”
“Certainly,” was my answer.
He entered the bath-room and closed its door behind him.
I had begun to fear that he might have rashly decided to jump into eternity from my bath-room when he reappeared with no mustache and a gray beard on his chin. Then, as if by chance, he took my hat and gray summer top-coat from the peg, where they had been hanging, said “Good-by,” and walked hurriedly out of my door and down the corridor.
I had hesitated a little between my duty to Mexico and my duty to Norris, but I felt, and rightly, as I believe, that my client should come first, for I am rather human. But how about the reward? I thought. Well, that was none of my funeral. Shorn of his pull, he was now in the thorny path of the fugitive, and so I let him go.