"Yes," said the stranger, composedly; "I repeat the question, why did you change your name to Manson?"

"What—do—you—mean?" the old man faltered slowly.

"I mean just what I say, and I see you understand me well enough."

"You can't prove it," said Peter, with an uneasy glance at his imperturbable companion.

"Can't I? Perhaps not. I should say the mysterious knowledge you seem to possess of the main incidents in my story would prove something."

"That isn't evidence in a court of law," said Peter, regaining a degree of confidence.

"Perhaps not; but I say, Peter, don't you recognize me?"

The old man scanned his features eagerly, and a sudden look of remembrance satisfied the latter that he was not forgotten.

"I see you do remember me," he said; "I thought you hadn't forgotten John Randall. At any rate he hasn't forgotten you, though twenty years have passed, and I was then but a young man. I used to see you too often about the streets of Havana not to remember that hooked nose, those gray eyes, and (excuse my plainness of speech) that large mouth. Yes, Peter, your features are impressed upon my memory too indelibly to be effaced."

Peter Manson remembered his companion as one who had had the reputation of being a "wild" young man. He had been placed at school by his father without any profitable result. On his father's death he squandered, in dissipation, the property which came to him, and had since devoted himself to the sea.

"Having settled this little matter of your identity," continued Randall, "I am ready to finish my story. I told you that Eleanor married the young man whose name you remembered so well. He was poor, dependent upon his salary as a clerk, and thanks to you his wife had nothing to hope from her father. They were obliged to live in a very humble way. At length, thinking he could do better here, he removed to Boston, where his early life had been spent."

"To Boston!" muttered Peter.

"The removal took place some six years since. They had three children when they first came here, but two died, leaving only the second, a boy, named Charlie. I should think he might be fourteen years of age. And now, would you like to know if the husband is still living?"

"Is he?" asked Peter, looking up.

"No. He died about a year since, of a fever."

"And—and Eleanor? What of her?"

"For six months past she has been a tenant of yours."

"A tenant of mine!" exclaimed the miser.

"It is even so. She occupies a second-story room in the tenement-house in——Street."

"And I have met her face to face?"

"I dare say you have. Your tenants are pretty sure to have that pleasure once a month. But doesn't it seem strange that Eleanor Gray, the beautiful daughter of your Havana employer, should after these twenty years turn up in Boston the tenant of her father's book-keeper?"

"Ha! ha!" chuckled the miser, hoarsely, "she isn't so much better off than if she had married old Peter."

"As to being better off," said Randall, "I presume she is better off, though she can't call a hundred dollars her own, than if she were installed mistress of your establishment. Faugh! Poorly as she is obliged to live, it is luxury, compared with your establishment."

He glanced about him with a look of disgust.

"If you don't like it," said Peter, querulously, "there is no use of your staying. It is past my bedtime."

"I shall leave you in a few minutes, Peter, but I want to give you something to think of first. Don't you see that your property is in danger of slipping from your hands?"

"My property in danger!" exclaimed Peter, wildly; "what do you mean; where is the danger?" Then, his voice sinking to its usual whine,—"not that I have any of any consequence, I am poor—very poor."

"Only from what I see I could easily believe it, but I happen to know better."

"Indeed, I am——"

"No more twaddle about poverty," said Randall, decidedly, "it won't go down. I am not so easily deceived as you may imagine. I know perfectly well that you are worth at the very least, thirty thousand dollars."

"Thirty thousand dollars!" exclaimed the miser, raising both hands in astonishment.

"Yes, Peter, and I don't know but I may say forty thousand. Why, it can't be otherwise, with your habits. Twenty years ago you made off with twenty thousand, which has been accumulating ever since. Your personal expenses haven't made very large inroads upon your income, judging from your scarecrow appearance. So much the worse for you. You might have got some good from it. Now it must go to others."

"To others!" exclaimed Peter, turning pale.

"Certainly. You don't think the law gives you whatever you've a mind to steal, do you? Of course there is no doubt that to your tenants, Eleanor and Charlie Codman, belongs this property which you wrongfully hold."

"They sha'n't have it. They never shall have it," said Peter Manson, hastily.

"Well, perhaps the law may have something to say about that."

"My gold!" groaned the miser. "If I lose that I lose everything. It will be my death. Good Mr. Randall, have pity upon me. I am sure you won't say anything that——"

"Will bring you to state's prison," said Randall, coolly.

"They—Eleanor and her son—need never know it."

"Unless I tell them."

"But you won't."

"That depends upon circumstances. How much will you give me to keep the thing secret?"

"What will I give you?"

"Precisely. That is what I have been so long in coming at. You see, Peter, that the secret is worth something. Either I reveal it to the parties interested, in which case I wouldn't give that," snapping his fingers, "for your chance of retaining the property, or I keep silence if you make it worth my while."

"Pity me," said the miser, abjectly, sinking on his knees before Randall; "pity me and spare my gold."

"Pity you!" said Randall, contemptuously. "Why didn't you pity your employer? You must make up your mind to pay me my price."

"I am very poor," whined Peter, in his customary phrase, "and I can't pay much."

"Oh yes, Peter," said the other, sarcastically, "I am well aware that you are poor,—wretchedly poor,—and I won't be too hard upon you."

"Thank you—thank you," said Peter, catching at this promise; "I will give you something—a little——"

"How much?" asked Randall, with some curiosity.

"Ten dollars!" said the miser, with the air of a man who named a large sum.

"Ten dollars!" returned Randall, with a laugh of derision. "Ten dollars to secure the peaceable possession of thirty thousand! Old man, you must be mad, or you must think that I am."

"I—I did not mean to offend," said the old man, humbly. "If I double the sum will it satisfy you? I—I will try to raise it, though it will be hard—very hard."

"This is mere trifling, Peter Manson," said his visitor, decidedly. "Twenty dollars! Why I wouldn't have come across the street to get it. No, you will have to elevate your ideas considerably."

"How much do you demand?" said the miser, groaning internally, and fixing his eyes anxiously upon Randall.

"You must not make a fuss when I name the amount."

"Name it," said Peter, in a choking voice.

"One thousand dollars will purchase my silence, and not a dollar less."

Peter sprang from his seat in consternation.

"One thousand dollars! Surely you are not in earnest."

"But I am, though. This is not a subject I care to jest upon."

"One thousand dollars! It will take all I have and leave me a beggar."

"If it should, Peter," said his visitor, composedly, "I will procure you admission to the poor-house, where, if I am not much mistaken you will be better off than in this tumble-down old shanty."

"Has the man no mercy?" groaned Peter, wringing his hands.

"None at all."

"Then," exclaimed the miser, in a sudden fit of desperation, "I won't pay you a cent—not a single cent."

"That is your final determination, is it?"

"Ye—yes," muttered Peter, but less firmly.

"Very well. I will tell you the result. I shall at once go to Eleanor, and inform her of the good fortune which awaits her. No fear but she will pay me a thousand dollars for the intelligence."

"She has no money."

"I will furnish her with money for the lawyers—she can repay me out of your hoards."

Peter groaned.

"Ay, groan away, Peter. You'll have cause enough to groan, by and by. There is one thing you don't seem to consider, that the law will do something more than take away your property. I will come to see you in jail."

He rose to leave the room, but Peter called him back hastily. "We may come to terms yet," he said.

"Then you accede to my terms."

"I will give you five hundred."

"Good-night, Peter. I wish you happy dreams."

"St-stay!" exclaimed Peter, terrified. "I will give eight hundred."

"I am in something of a hurry," said Randall. "I believe I will call on Eleanor. I don't think we can make any arrangement."

"Hold! perhaps I will do as you say."

"Ah! now you are beginning to be reasonable," said Randall, resuming his seat.

"What security can you give me for your silence?"

"I'll tell you what I will do, Peter. You remember I told you Eleanor had a son, a boy of fourteen."

"Yes."

"His mother is quite devoted to him. Indeed, he contributes to her support by selling papers, and by various little jobs. Now, as long as Eleanor lives here you are in danger."

"Yes."

"And if a blow is levelled at her it must be through her boy."

"I see."

"Then I'll tell you of a scheme I have arranged. You must first know that I am mate of a vessel now in port, which is bound for San Francisco. We are to sail in a few days."

"Well?"

"We happen to be in want of a boy to fill up our regular number. Suppose I kidnap Eleanor's boy. Don't you see, that as he is her chief support, she will soon be in difficulties? and this, with her uncertainty about her boy's fate, may rid you of your greatest peril, and the only one of the two who could identify you."

"Excellent, excellent!" chuckled Peter, rubbing his hands; "she shall yet be sorry that she rejected old Peter."

"Am I to understand that you accede to my proposal, then?"

Not without many groans Peter agreed to deliver the sum mentioned between them, on condition that the boy was secured.

It was striking ten when Randall left the house. His face beamed with exultation.

"I have done a good night's work," he said. "By working on the fears of the old curmudgeon I have made sure of a thousand dollars. He will be lucky if this is the last money I get out of him. He little thinks that I, too, have a revenge to wreak. He is not the only one that has been scornfully rejected by Eleanor Codman. Now to bed, and to-morrow shall see my work commenced."