After calling at Donovan's, on the day when Dan recovered Althea, John Hartley crossed the Courtlandt street ferry, and took a train to Philadelphia with Blake, his accomplice in the forged certificates. The two confederates had raised some Pennsylvania railway certificates, which they proposed to put on the Philadelphia market.

They spent several days in the Quaker City, and thus Hartley heard nothing of the child's escape.

Donovan did not see fit to inform him, as this would stop the weekly remittance for the child's board, and, moreover, draw Hartley's indignation down upon his head.

One day, in a copy of the New York Herald, which he purchased at the news-stand in the Continental Hotel, Hartley observed the arrival of Harriet Vernon at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

"I thought she would come," he said to himself, with a smile. "I have her in my power at last. She must submit to my terms, or lose sight of the child altogether."

"Blake," he said, aloud, "I must take the first train to New York."

"Why, what's up, partner?" asked Blake, in surprise. "Anything gone wrong?"

"On the contrary, I see a chance of making a good haul."

"How?"

"Not in our line. It's some private business of my own."

"All right. I wish you success. When will you return?"

"That I can't exactly say. I will write or telegraph you."

In the evening of the same day Mrs. Vernon sat in her room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. A servant brought up a card bearing the name of John Hartley.

"He is prompt," she said to herself, with a smile. "Probably he has not heard of Althea's escape from the den to which he carried her. I will humor him, in that case, and draw him out."

"I will see the gentleman in the parlor," she said.

Five minutes later she entered the ladies' parlor. Hartley rose to receive her with a smile of conscious power, which told Harriet Vernon that he was ignorant of the miscarriage of his plans.

"I heard of your unexpected arrival, Mrs. Vernon," he commenced, "and have called to pay my respects."

"Your motive is appreciated, John Hartley," she said, coldly. "I expected to see you."

"That's pleasant," he said, mockingly. "May I beg to apologize for constraining you to cross the Atlantic?"

"Don't apologize; you have merely acted out your nature."

"Probably that is not meant to be complimentary. However, it can't be helped."

"I suppose you have something to say to me, John Hartley," said Mrs. Vernon, seating herself. "Pray proceed."

"You are quite right. I wrote you that I had ferreted out your cunningly devised place of concealment for my daughter."

"You did."

He looked at her a little puzzled. She seemed very cool and composed, whereas he expected she would be angry and disturbed.

"We may as well come to business at once," he said. "If you wish to recover the charge of your ward, you must accede to my terms."

"State them."

"They are expressed in my letter to you. You must agree to pay me a thousand dollars each quarter."

"It strikes me you are exorbitant in your demands."

"I don't think so. At any rate, the money won't come out of you. It will come from my daughter's income."

"So you would rob your daughter, John Hartley?"

"Rob my daughter!" he exclaimed, angrily. "She will have enough left. Is she to live in luxury, and with thousands to spare, while I, her only living parent, wander penniless and homeless about the world."

"I might sympathize with you, if I did not know how you have misused the gifts of fortune, and embittered the existence of my poor sister. As it is, it only disgusts me."

"I don't want you sympathy, Harriet Vernon," he said, roughly. "I want four thousand dollars a year."

"Suppose I decline to let you have it?"

"Then you must take the consequences," he said, quickly.

"What are to be the consequences?" she asked, quietly.

"That you and Althea will be forever separated. She shall never see you again."

He looked at her intently to see the effect of his threat.

Harriet Vernon was as cool and imperturbable as ever.

"Have you been in New York for a week past?" she asked, as he thought, irrelevantly.

"Why do you ask?"

"I have a reason."

"No, I have not."

"So I thought."

"Why did you think so?"

"Because you don't appear to know what has happened."

"What has happened?" he asked, uneasily.

"Mr. Donovan can tell you. As for me, I bid you good-evening."

A wild fear took possession of him.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, hurriedly.

"I mean, John Hartley, that you are not as shrewd as you imagine. I mean that a boy has foiled you; and while you were doubtless laughing at his simplicity, he has proved more than a match for you. You have no claim upon me, and I must decline your disinterested proposal."

She left the room, leaving him crest-fallen and stupefied.

"Has Donovan betrayed me?" he muttered. "I will soon find out."

He started for Brooklyn immediately, and toward eleven o'clock entered the saloon at Donovan's.

"Where is the child?" he demanded, sternly.

The rubicund host turned pale.

"She's gone," he cried, "but I couldn't help it, Mr. Hartley. On my honor, I couldn't."

"How did it happen? Tell me at once."

The story was told, Donovan ending by invoking curses upon the boy who had played such a trick upon him.

"You're a fool!" said Hartley, roughly. "I am ashamed of you, for allowing a boy to get the best of you."

"That boy's a fox," said Donovan. "He's a match for the old one, he is. I'd like to break his neck for him."

"It's not too late. I may get hold of the girl again," mused Hartley, as he rose to go. "If I do, I won't put her in charge of such a dunderhead."

He left Donovan's and returned to New York, but he had hardly left the Fulton ferry-boat when he was tapped on the shoulder by an officer.

"I want you," he said.

"What for?" asked Hartley, nervously.

"A little financial irregularity, as they call it in Wall street. You may know something about some raised railroad certificates!"

"Confusion!" muttered Hartley. "Luck is dead against me."