"My good friend," said Mr. Hardy, "have you any reason to think your nephew's statement is to be relied upon?"

"I hope so," answered Anthony. "I am getting to be an old man, and I should like to feel that some one of my own blood would survive me, and profit by a part of the competence which God has bestowed upon me."

"It may be simply a money-making scheme on the part of Lyman," said the agent, thoughtfully. "Finding that he has little chance of becoming your heir, he wants to secure a handsome reward for restoring to you your grandson. Why has he not proposed it before?"

"Because he did not know I had any property to leave, or else because he supposed his own chances of inheriting good. After the last interview with me, he probably lost the hope of profiting by my death."

"There is something in what you say, Mr. Taylor. What is your own idea?"

"I would give five thousand dollars, if necessary, to secure the return of my grandson. It would give me an object to live for."

"I should be exceedingly sorry to see that sum pass into the hands of such a rascal as your graceless nephew."

"Would you offer two thousand?"

"I would hold no serious negotiations with him."

"But I would run the risk of leaving the poor boy to a life of poverty, and myself to a lonely old age."

"My idea is this. I will telegraph to Mark Manning, who is now in St. Louis, the particulars of your nephew's offer, with instructions to go at once to Chicago, find out Lyman, and put a detective on his track. If his story is true, he probably visits the boy from time to time. In this way it can be discovered where the boy lives, and steps can be taken to secure him."

"I approve of your plan," said Anthony. "Let it be carried out at once."

"There will be this advantage," added Hardy. "Your enterprising nephew will not realize any benefit from his nice little scheme for trading upon your affections."

"Do as you think best, my good friend. Your judgment is always better than mine."

John Hardy rapidly penned the following despatch.

"Mark Manning, Planter's Hotel, St. Louis: Go at once to Chicago and find Lyman Taylor. He knows where child is. Employ a detective, and track him to boy's residence. Don't let him suspect your object. Keep me apprised of your progress.

John Hardy."

This despatch reached Mark within two hours. He had been in St. Louis several days, and had learned nothing. Two or three persons had called upon him with bogus information in the hope of a reward, but he was sharp enough to detect the imposition. He was beginning to despair of success when Mr. Hardy's telegram was received. Mark brightened up. He saw his way clearer now.

He went out to purchase a ticket for Chicago, and on his return found a second telegram in these words:

"Lyman admits knowledge of boy, and offers to restore him for five thousand dollars."

"I will endeavor to thwart Mr. Lyman Taylor," said Mark to himself. "He is a greater rascal than I thought."

Mark paid his bill and took the next train for Chicago. He arrived late, and registered at the Fremont House, where he prepared himself for the difficult work that lay before him by taking a good night's rest. In the morning he awoke hopeful and determined, and after breakfast went out to walk. He had no clue to the where-abouts of Lyman, but thought it possible he might meet him as he had done before in the streets.

He walked about for two hours, keeping his eyes wide open, but though he scanned many hundreds of faces, that of Lyman Taylor was not among them. Yet his walk was to be more successful than he anticipated.

Little Jack still continued his street trade of selling matches. Peggy was not willing to give up the small revenue she obtained from the boy's sales. Sometimes, also, a compassionate passer-by would bestow a dime or nickel on the boy, pitying him for his thin face and sad expression. Sometimes, if Tim were not by, he would buy a cheap lunch, for the scanty rations which he received from Peggy, left him in a chronic state of hunger.

It was fortunate that the poor boy indulged himself thus, or his feeble strength would hardly have held out against hunger and hard work combined.

Unwittingly Jack had made an active enemy in Tim Roach. His refusal to treat, Tim persuaded himself, was very mean, and his indignation was increased by the ill-success of his attempt to secure pay for the information given to Peggy. He was anxious to be revenged upon Jack, and was only waiting for an opportunity.

Malice generally finds its opportunity after awhile. One day Jack set down his basket of matches a moment while he ran into a shop to change a twenty-five cent piece. Tim was close at hand, and slyly secured the basket, and fled swiftly through a narrow passage-way with his booty. He had not only secured a stock of merchandise, but he had got Jack into trouble.

When Jack came out and found his basket gone he was in dismay.

"Who took my basket?" he inquired of an applewoman, who kept a stand close by.

"There was a bye here just now—bigger than you. He must have run off wid it when my back was turned away."

"Where did he go?" asked Jack, anxiously.

"I didn't mind."

"What was he like?"

"Shure I've seed him here afore wid you. You called him Tim."

"It was Tim Roach!" exclaimed Jack. "He's a mean boy. He took it to get me into trouble."

"Shure he looks like a thafe."

The tears started to Jack's eyes.

"I don't know what to do," he said, piteously. "I am afraid Peggy will beat me when I get home."

"Who is Peggy?" asked a new voice.

Jack looked towards the speaker. He saw a pleasant-faced boy, apparently about sixteen.

"She's the woman I live with," answered Jack.

"What will she beat you for?" asked Mark, for it was he. He had just come up, and hadn't heard of Jack's misfortune, but his heart was stirred to sympathy, by the sadness visible upon the little boy's face.

"For losing my matches," and thereupon Jack told his story to his new acquaintance.

"How much were the matches worth?" asked Mark.

"There were fourteen boxes. They cost me three cents a piece. Then there was the basket. That cost a quarter."

"Do you know where to buy more?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then take this dollar bill, and get a new supply."

Jack's little face glowed with gratitude.

"Oh, how kind you are!" he said.

"Do you generally stand here?" asked Mark.

"Yes, sir."

"Does this Peggy send you out every day?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is she related to you?"

"I thought she was my aunt," answered the match boy, "but last evening a gentleman called on Peggy, I heard them talking when they thought I was asleep," Jack continued in a lower tone. "I heard the gentleman say I had a grandfather living at the East, and that he would pay a good sum to get hold of me. I wish he would, for Peggy doesn't give me enough to eat, and sometimes she beats me."

"Tell me about this gentleman," said Mark in excitement. "Is he tall?"

"Yes, sir."

"With black hair and whiskers?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know his name?"

"No, sir; but there he is now!"

Mark followed the direction of the boy's finger, and he recognized, though his head was turned, the familiar form of Lyman Taylor on the opposite side of the street.