A dozen of them sat over a bowl of punch, when the door was opened and I kicked my Guy Fawkes inside.

I may have misjudged them, but I thought every eye looked furtive as they saw my prisoner.
"Gentlemen," said I, "I restore you your property.

This is a penitent thief who desires to make a confession." My pistol was at his temple, the powder was round his neck, and he must have seen a certain resolution in my face.

Anyhow, sweating and quaking, he blurted out his story, and when he offered to halt I made rings with the barrel on the flesh of his neck.
"It is a damned lie," cried one of them, a handsome, over-dressed fellow who had been conspicuous for his public insolence towards me.
"Nay," said I, "our penitent's tale has the note of truth.

One word to you, gentlemen.