"I will do so at once," I replied.
As soon as the meal was finished I sat down in the reading-room, and wrote a long letter to Mr. Banker, telling him all that happened, and what a villain I had found Mr. Stillwell to be. I also said that I expected to be in New York the following evening and wished very much he would meet me. I likewise quoted the letter from London, and asked why my father's wish had not been carried out.
"That will do first-rate," said Mr. Ranson, when I showed it to him.
"I think I will take a walk out and post it," I said, for to write the letters had taken over an hour and a half, and I felt somewhat cramped from the work.
"All right. You will find me in the room when you return. Remember it is number 67."
I walked out upon the busy street. It was brightly lighted, and in the evening looked very similar to Fourteenth Street in New York.
I found a mail-box on the corner, and dropped my letter in it.
I was just turning away from the box when I felt a hand on my arm and a cheery voice called out:
"Well, dash my toplights, if it ain't Luke Foster! How under the polar star did you git here, boy?"
I turned swiftly and found that the man who had
