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Which was true. For one night, James Lexington Morlake, in the course of business, had broken into a warehouse of which Binger was caretaker. Morlake took the warehouse en route to a bigger objective—there was a bank at the end of the warehouse block—and he had found an almost lifeless Binger who had fallen through a trap and had broken a leg in the most complicated manner it is possible to break a leg. And Morlake had stopped and tended him; carried him to the hospital, though Binger guessed him for what he was, "The Black"—the terror of every bank manager in the kingdom. In this way both men, taking the most amazing risks, came into acquaintance. Not that it was, perhaps, any great risk for James Morlake, for he understood men.

He selected a cigarette from the gold case he took from his pocket, and lit it.

"One of these days, perhaps I'll become a respectable member of society, Binger," he said, a chuckle in his voice.

"I 'ope so, sir, I do most sincerely pray you will," said Binger earnestly. "It's not a nice profession—you're hout all hours of the night ... it's not healthy! Speaking as a hold soldier, sir, I tell you that honesty is the best policy."