On Washington Street, not far from Old South Church, is an office for the sale of railroad tickets to western points. It was this office which Eben entered.

“He is going to inquire the price of a ticket to some western city,” thought Herbert. “I heard him say one day that he wanted to go West.”

Our hero's curiosity was naturally aroused, and he stood at the entrance, where he could not only see but hear what passed within.

“What do you charge for a ticket to Chicago?” he heard Eben ask.

“Twenty-two dollars,” was the answer of the young man behind the counter.

“You may give me one,” said Eben.

As he spoke he drew from his vest pocket a roll of bills, and began to count off the requisite sum.

Herbert was surprised. He had supposed that Eben was merely making inquiries about the price of tickets. He had not imagined that he was really going.

“Can Mr. Graham have given him money to go?” he asked himself.

“When can I start?” asked Eben, as he received a string of tickets from the clerk.

“At three this afternoon.”

Eben seemed well pleased with this reply. He carefully deposited the tickets in an inside vest pocket, and turned to go out of the office. As he emerged from it he caught sight of Herbert, who had not yet started to go. He looked surprised and annoyed.

“Herbert Carr!” he exclaimed. “How came you here?”

Mingled with his surprise there was a certain nervousness of manner, as Herbert thought.

“I came to Boston with Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, coldly.

“Oh!” ejaculated Eben, with an air of perceptible relief. “Where is Mr. Melville?”

“He has gone to the office of his physician, on Tremont Street.”

“Leaving you to your own devices, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Look out you don't get lost!” said Eben, with affected gayety. “I am here on a little business for the old man.”

Herbert did not believe this, in view of what he had seen, but he did not think it necessary to say so.

“Good-morning!” said Herbert, in a tone polite but not cordial.

“Good-morning! Oh, by the way, I have just been inquiring the cost of a ticket to St. Louis,” said Eben, carelessly.

“Indeed! Do you think of going out there?”

“Yes, if the old man will let me,” said Eben.

“Do you prefer St. Louis to Chicago?” asked Herbert, watching the face of Eben attentively.

Eben's face changed, and he looked searchingly at our hero, but could read nothing in his face.

“Oh, decidedly!” he answered, after a slight pause. “I don't think I would care for Chicago.”

“And all the while you have a ticket for Chicago in your pocket!” thought Herbert, suspiciously, “Well, that's your own affair entirely, not mine.”

“What train do you take back to Wayneboro?” asked Eben, not without anxiety.

“We shall not go before four o'clock.”

“I may be on the train with you,” said Eben, “though possibly I shall get through in time to take an earlier one.”

“He is trying to deceive me,” thought Herbert.

“Good-morning,” he said, formally, and walked away.

“I wish I hadn't met him,” muttered Eben to himself. “He may give the old man a clew. However, I shall be safe out of the way before anything can be done.”

Herbert kept on his way, and found the bank without difficulty.

He entered and looked about him. Though unaccustomed to banks, he watched to see where others went to get checks cashed, and presented himself in turn.

“How will you have it?” asked the paying teller.

“Fives and tens, and a few small bills,” answered Herbert, promptly.

The teller selected the requisite number of bank bills quickly, and passed them out to Herbert. Our hero counted them, to make sure that they were correct, and then put them away in his inside pocket. It gave him a feeling of responsibility to be carrying about so much money, and he felt that it was incumbent on him to be very careful.

“Where shall I go now?” he asked himself.

He would have liked to go to Charlestown, and ascend Bunker Hill Monument, but did not know how to go. Besides, he feared he would not get back to the Parker House at the time fixed by Mr. Melville. Still, he might be able to do it. He addressed himself to a rather sprucely dressed man of thirty-five whom he met at the door of the bank.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but can you tell me how far it is to Bunker Hill Monument?”

“About a mile and a half,” answered the stranger.

“Could I go there and get back to the Parker House before one o'clock.”

“Could you?” repeated the man, briskly. “Why, to be sure you could!”

“But I don't know the way.”

“You have only to take one of the Charlestown horse cars, and it will land you only a couple of minutes' walk from the monument.”

“Can you tell me what time it is, sir?”

“Only a little past eleven. So you have never been to Bunker Hill Monument, my lad?”

“No sir; I live in the country, forty miles away and seldom come to Boston.”

“I see, I see,” said the stranger, his eyes snapping in a very peculiar way. “Every patriotic young American ought to see the place where Warren fell.”

“I should like to if you could tell me where to take the cars.”

“Why, certainly I will,” said the other, quickly. “In fact—let me see,” and he pulled out a silver watch from his vest pocket, “I've a great mind to go over with you myself.”

“I shouldn't like to trouble you, sir,” said Herbert.

“Oh, it will be no trouble. Business isn't pressing this morning, and I haven't been over for a long time myself. If you don't object to my company, I will accompany you.”

“You are very kind,” said Herbert. “If you are quite sure that you are not inconveniencing yourself, I shall be very glad to go with you—that is, if you think I can get back to the Parker House by one o'clock.”

“I will guarantee that you do,” said the stranger, confidently. “My young friend, I am glad to see that you are particular to keep your business engagements. In a varied business experience, I have observed that it is precisely that class who are destined to win the favor of their employer and attain solid success.”

“He seems a very sensible man,” thought Herbert; “and his advice is certainly good.”

“Come this way,” said the stranger, crossing Washington Street. “Scollay's Square is close at hand, and there we shall find a Charlestown horse car.”

Of course Herbert yielded himself to the guidance of his new friend, and they walked up Court Street together.

“That,” said the stranger, pointing out a large, somber building to the left, “is the courthouse. The last time I entered it was to be present at the trial of a young man of my acquaintance who had fallen into evil courses, and, yielding to temptation, had stolen from his employer. It was a sad sight,” said the stranger, shaking his head.

“I should think it must have been,” said Herbert.

“Oh, why, why will young men yield to the seductions of pleasure?” exclaimed the stranger, feelingly.

“Was he convicted?” asked Herbert.

“Yes, and sentenced to a three years term in the State prison,” answered his companion. “It always makes me feel sad when I think of the fate of that young man.”

“I should think it would, sir.”

“I have mentioned it as a warning to one who is just beginning life,” continued the stranger. “But here is our car.”

A Charlestown car, with an outside sign, Bunker Hill, in large letters, came by, and the two got on board.

They rode down Cornhill, and presently the stranger pointed out Faneuil Hall.

“Behold the Cradle of Liberty,” he said. “Of course, you have heard of Faneuil Hall?”

“Yes, sir,” and Herbert gazed with interest at the building of which he had heard so much.

It was but a short ride to Charlestown. They got out at the foot of a steep street, at the head of which the tall, granite column which crowns the summit of Bunker Hill stood like a giant sentinel ever on guard.