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"My name is Blastion and I am a burglar by profession. When I saw you the other night, at work on the premises next door to me, I was struck by your refined face. I said to myself: 'At last the profession is being recruited by gentlemen, men of culture, men of refinement.
Just look at my hands if you doubt my word." Aghast, the organist examined the shapely hands before him. Without peradventure of a doubt they were those of a pianist, an expert pianist, and one who had studied assiduously. He was stupefied. A burglar and a pianist! What next? Mr. Blastion continued his edifying remarks: "Yes, I studied very hard.
At last a profitable, withal risky, pursuit is being dignified, nay, graced, by the proper sort of person. And I saluted you in a happy, haphazard fashion, and then you flew the coop. Pardon my relapse into the vernacular." Pinton felt that it was time to speak. "Pardon me, if I interrupt you, Mr. Blastion; but I fear we are not meeting on equal ground.
Then both arose after paying their checks, and the organist shook the burglar's hand at the corner, after first exacting a promise that Blastion should play for him some morning. "With pleasure, my boy. You're a gentleman and an artist, and I trust you absolutely." And he walked away, whistling with rare skill the D flat valse of Chopin. "You can trust me, I swear!"
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