guest to a small room off his own, and told him to go to bed.
“By the way, what's your name?” he asked, before he closed the door.
“Turkington—James Turkington, sir,” answered the now respectful robber. And he wanted to say more, but the other interrupted.
“Well, Turk, when you get up in the morning, polish those shoes of mine over there. We'll talk it over after I've had my breakfast. Good-night.”
And that is how Turk, most faithful and loyal of servants, began his apparently endless employment with Mr. Philip Quentin, dabbler in stocks, bonds and hearts. Whatever his ugly past may have been, whatever his future may have promised, he was honest to a painful degree in these days with Quentin. Quick-witted, fiery, willful and as ugly as a little demon, Turk knew no law, no integrity except that which benefitted his employer. Beyond a doubt, if Quentin had instructed him to butcher a score of men, Turk would have proceeded to do so and without argument. But Quentin instructed him to be honest, law-abiding and cautious. It would be perfectly safe to guess his age between forty and sixty, but it would not be wise to measure his strength by the size of his body. The little ex-burglar was like a piece of steel.
II. SOME RAIN AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
New York had never been so nasty and cold and disagreeable. For three weeks it had rained—a steady, chilling drizzle. Quentin stood it as long as he could, but the weather is a large factor in the life of a gentleman of leisure. He couldn't play Squash the entire time, and Bridge he always maintained was more of a profession than a pastime. So it was that one morning, as he looked out at the sheets of water blowing across the city, his mind was made up.
“We'll get out of this, Turk. I've had enough of it.”
“Where do we go, sir?” calmly asked the servant.
“Heaven knows! But be ready to start tomorrow. We'll go somewhere and dodge this blessed downpour. Call me a cab.”
As he drove to the club, he mentally tossed coppers as to his destination.
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