Professor Puffer let his eye glide slowly over Bernard’s figure. He noted not only his increase in size, but his neat dress, and bright and handsome face.

“How long have you been in America?” he asked abruptly.

“I arrived yesterday by the Etruria.”

“You seem well and prosperous,” went on Puffer, with an envious sigh.

“Yes; I have been fortunate.”

“It is wonderful. You are elegantly dressed. Yet I left you destitute, or rather you left me, without a penny to fall back upon.”

“That is true, Professor Puffer.”

“It was a reckless step to take.”

“It may have been, but you must admit that I had good reasons for taking the step,” said Bernard significantly.

“What are you doing? Are you employed?” asked the professor, without comment.

“I am, and I am not. I am nominally private secretary to my kind friend, Mr. Walter Cunningham,” said Bernard, with a look at that gentleman.

“The gentleman who advertised in London for a traveling companion?”

“The same.”

“I sought the position. I should have been much better qualified than you,” said the professor peevishly.

“You don’t appear to have prospered,” rejoined Bernard.

“No. Is it not disgraceful that a man of my attainments should fill this ignoble position?” said Professor Puffer bitterly.

“Couldn’t you get anything better to do?”

“If I could you would not have found me traveling through the streets as a sandwich man. Up and down I walk through the livelong day, and how much do you think I receive for my degrading labors?”

“I suppose it is not much.”

“Fifty cents a day,” answered the professor bitterly.

“And you live on that?”

“Don’t live on it I starve.”

“But I don’t see how you became so reduced. Was not Cornelius McCracken, my old guardian, a friend of yours?”

“McCracken! The selfish beast! Don’t name him to me. I can’t bear to hear his name spoken.”

“Has he treated you badly?” asked Bernard.

“Has he not? I was his confidential agent. He selected me to do his dirty work. He placed you under my care, having certain interests of his own to serve.”

“I have always wondered what his object could have been?”

As Bernard spoke he fixed his eyes eagerly upon the face of his old companion. He felt persuaded that Professor Puffer could tell him what he was very anxious to know. He meant before the interview was over to obtain from him light as to his relations with Mr. McCracken.

“Have you see him lately? Won’t he do anything for you?” he continued.

“Listen! When I returned from Europe, two months since, I called upon him. I had previously communicated with him by letter. He asked after you. I told him that you were dead.”

“Why did you tell him that?”

“Because it was what he wished to know.”

“Did he wish me to die?” asked Bernard, startled, but not wholly surprised.

“He did. In sending you to Europe with me, he wished to get rid of you, and I had instructions to that effect.”

“That accounts for your trying to throw me overboard that night on the Vesta.”

“Yes. I was endeavoring to carry out my instructions.”

“Were the instructions oral or written?”

“Written. I had a letter in McCracken’s own handwriting.”

“Don’t that give you a hold upon him?”

“It would if I had kept it, but unfortunately I lost it on the steamer, I think.”

Bernard had the letter in his trunk at the hotel. He had always preserved it, thinking that some time he might find a use for it. Of course the professor didn’t know this.

“I reported your death,” continued Puffer. “I said you had been run over and fatally injured in Marseilles. I could see how much satisfaction this news afforded Mr. McCracken. He ascertained by cunning questions that I didn’t have his letter in my possession, and then he became cool and indifferent. ‘I am sorry for the boy’s death,’ he said. ‘He was young to die. I think you must have been careless.’ ‘I was only carrying out your instructions,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’ he retorted. ‘I committed him to your charge. If I gave you any instructions, produce them.’

“This I couldn’t do, and he knew it.

“I represented to him that I was very poor, and needed help.

“‘Really,’ he said, ‘that is nothing to me.’

“‘Can’t you give me employment?’ I asked.

“‘I have no places vacant,’ he answered coldly.

“‘What am I to do?’ I asked. ‘I have no money.’

“‘Surely you don’t expect me to support you,’ he said impatiently. ‘You have no claim upon me.’

“Then I bethought myself of a clever scheme.

“‘Surely,’ I said, ‘you will repay me the sum I paid out for the boy’s funeral.’

“He reflected a moment, and then answered in the affirmative.

“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you will give me a receipt in due form.’

“I went out of the office with one hundred dollars in my pocket.”

“It was certainly a lucky thought,” said Bernard, smiling; “considering that my funeral expenses are paid, I feel unusually full of life. However, I am glad you got the money.”

“It is all gone now!” went on Puffer mournfully. “I lived perhaps too freely while it lasted. When it was gone I called once more at Mr. McCracken’s office, and was literally kicked out. What do you think of that?”

Hitherto Walter Cunningham had stood by in silence, listening to the conversation between Bernard and his quondam guardian. Now he came forward with a question.

“Can you tell me, Professor Puffer,” he asked, “why Mr. McCracken wishes to get rid of Bernard?”

“The answer is an easy one. He has in his possession ten thousand dollars intrusted to him by Bernard’s father. It must amount to a good deal more now from the interest that has accrued.”

“What proof can you give of this? Did he ever write to you to that effect?”

“No; but he admitted it to me in conversation.”

“I am disposed to get this back from him. Are you willing to help me?”

“I wish I could,” said Puffer earnestly. “I owe him a grudge. That would be a welcome revenge. But I am afraid there is no chance. If only I had that letter of instructions I could prove at any rate that he wanted me to get rid of him.”

“That would give us a hold on him, and with the help of it I think we could bring him to terms.”

“But unfortunately I have lost the letter,” continued the professor regretfully.

“Professor Puffer,” said Bernard, “that letter is still in existence.”

“Is it?” asked Puffer eagerly. “Where is it?”

“I have it in my trunk. I found it on the floor of your stateroom on the Vesta. It is not quite complete, but there is enough in it with your help to fasten a very serious charge upon Mr. McCracken.”

“Good! good! I am thankful,” said the professor. “I will go with you, and beard him in his den. He shall repent the way in which he has treated me. But you will have to wait till evening. I shall not be through with my work till six o’clock.”

“You can leave it now,” said Cunningham. “I am not at all sure that you are entitled to the title of professor, but at all events you are fit for something better than a sandwich man. I will see that you are no longer reduced to such humble work.”

“I shall be thankful,” said Ezra Puffer, “deeply thankful if you will find me a better position. Sometimes I meet a man whom I knew in better days, and then I am inexpressibly mortified to be seen in such a position.”

“I think I can promise you some more congenial employment. Do you know where the Brevoort House is?”

“Yes.”

“Come round there at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, and call for me. You remember my name?”

“Yes; you are Mr. Cunningham.”

“Do you think,” asked Puffer, “that you could spare me half a dollar now? I feel quite hungry, and I should like to make a good meal.”

“Certainly. Here are five dollars. Now, be sure to call at the Brevoort House to-morrow morning.”

“Most certainly I will,” said the professor, eying the bank note he had just received with a joyful glance. “I should be a fool if I didn’t. Through you and Bernard, I hope to have another chance of living respectably. Now I must go and surrender this badge of my servitude,” and he glanced disdainfully at the two placards which he had already removed from their position behind and in front. “I hope, Bernard, you will never be subjected to such humiliation.”

“I hardly think it likely,” said Walter Cunningham, “especially if through you he obtains possession of his father’s money.”

“I will do my best, sir. I think, Cornelius McCracken,” he continued, snapping his fingers at an imaginary form, “that we shall be too much for you at last. You will be sorry that you did not treat me better.”

Professor Puffer disappeared rapidly round the corner of Houston Street, and Bernard and Walter Cunningham walked up town to their hotel.

“Things seem to be turning in your favor, Bernard,” said his companion. “The money left by your father will not be of so much consequence to you now, but it will be a satisfaction to wrest it from the hands of your faithless guardian. Professor Puffer will prove to be a good friend to you after all.”