It was evident that the guest whom Rupert had conducted to his room was a maniac of the most dangerous character. The man's face was terrible to look upon. His small, ferret-like eyes seemed to dilate with ferocious cunning. He was a man not perhaps robust or strong, but too strong for a boy of sixteen. And Rupert was alone with him.

It was terrible to think that he was to become the victim of such a man. Apart from the pain of death, it was made more terrible at the hands of an insane man.

What should he do?

Rupert had read somewhere that to openly combat an insane person is dangerous. It is advisable to humor his delusions. Fortunately he had read a story recently in which a man had escaped death by this very means. It was a desperate chance, but Rupert resolved to make use of it. Instead of showing the fear he really felt, he forced himself to appear calm.

"You are mistaken," he said; "the boy you are to sacrifice is under the bed."

The maniac was just about to lunge with his knife, but Rupert's words made him pause.

"Look under the bed and you will see him," continued the bell-boy.

The bed was at the other end of the room. The maniac went over to it, and, getting on his knees, began to peer underneath.

Here was Rupert's opportunity. He sprang to the door, turned the key, but did not dare to stop to lock it on the outside, and dashed into the entry. The door of the next room chanced to be open. He darted inside, and bolted himself in.

He was just in time. The maniac, discovering the ruse, rose to his feet, and, knife in hand, ran into the hall with a blood-curdling cry. He looked in vain for Rupert, who was nowhere to be seen. The staircase was near. He ran down, flight after flight, till he reached the office floor, and made a great sensation as he dashed through it with his drawn knife.

Here, however, he had some one more formidable than a boy to contend with. Two burly porters sprang upon him, and felled him to the floor. The knife was taken from him, and the clerk, horror-struck, leaning over him, asked, "What did you do with the boy?"

"I tried to kill him, but he escaped," said the lunatic. "But I will have him yet!"

"Call two policemen," said Mr. Malcolm. "One of you go upstairs and find the bell-boy."

Rupert remained in his temporary refuge, not daring to come out. He heard his unpleasant acquaintance leaving the adjoining room, but was apprehensive that he might return. At length he heard some one calling, "Rupert, where are you?" and recognized it as the voice of one of the other bell-boys. He opened the door and came out.

"Where is the insane man?" he asked quickly.

"He was captured in the office, and his knife taken from him. How did you escape from him?"

"Wait till I go down stairs and I will tell you."

When Rupert reached the office he was eagerly questioned. He gave the particulars of his unpleasant interview with the crank.

"I congratulate you on your presence of mind," said the clerk. "You had a narrow escape from a terrible fate."

"Where is he now?"

"On his way to the station-house. You need not be afraid that he will come back. He is sure to be locked up."

Later in the day the proprietor of the hotel sent for Rupert.

"My boy," he said, "you ran a terrible risk this morning. It was in my service, and I feel that I ought in some way to express my appreciation of your remarkable courage and presence of mind. Here are fifty dollars, which I hope you will find of service."

It was not alone the gift, but the kind words, that gratified Rupert. He was able to buy a new suit for best, and a few other articles of which he had need.

During the day he had a call from a man connected with one of the daily papers, who wished his photograph to reproduce in connection with an account of the incident. This, however, Rupert declined to give, not caring for notoriety. The account of the crank's onset, however, appeared, and a good many curious visitors were attracted to the Somerset Hotel.

Among these was Julian Lorimer. Rupert's name had not been mentioned in the account, and Julian was surprised to meet him.

"How came you here?" he asked.

"I am employed here," answered Rupert, quietly.

"What are you?"

"A bell-boy."

"Is that so? Can you tell me who it was that was nearly killed by a crazy crank yesterday?"

"I was the one."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Julian, in amazement. "Was he really so dangerous?"

"He came near killing me."

"Humph! That was rather unpleasant. Do you get good pay here?"

"Yes, very good—enough to support me."

"It isn't much of a position, though."

"If you will find me a better one I will give this up," said Rupert, smiling.

"I am expecting to go into a wholesale house soon."

"I hope you will succeed in getting such a place. It is rather hard getting business positions now."

"Oh, my father is well known in the city. He can find me one."

"That will be in your favor."

Here Rupert was called off by a summons from the office, and the interview terminated. He had not told Julian of the handsome gift received from the proprietor, as he knew that his old schoolfellow had no real interest in his welfare.

One who is employed in an American hotel has an excellent opportunity to study human nature. It is free to all comers, and among those who sit in the lobby or use the reading room there are always some who are not guests. The larger proportion of these are respectable persons, but some are adventurers who may be on the lookout for victims.

One young man, stylishly dressed and sporting an eyeglass and a cane, Rupert had more than once noticed. He came in from time to time, bought a sheet of paper and an envelope at the news stand, and wrote a letter at one of the tables in the reading room. Rupert, whose acquaintance with the city was limited, decided from his dress that he belonged to some prominent family. It was noteworthy, however, that he always entered alone. He sometimes, however, entered into conversation with one of the guests of the hotel. Those from the country seemed to have his preference.

This surprised Rupert, who wondered what attraction rural visitors could have for a young man of his elegant appearance.

One day an old man of sixty registered from a town in Orange County. His face was weather-beaten, and he looked like a farmer. His clothing was rusty, and appeared to have been worn for several years.

He might have been taken for a poor man, but Rupert had seen him draw out a large wallet full of bills, and judged that, if not rich, he was in comfortable circumstances.

It so happened that the young man already referred to had also seen the wallet, and he at once began to pay attention to the rural visitor. Watching his opportunity, he sat down beside him in the reading room one afternoon.

"It is a pleasant day, sir," he said, sociably.

"So 'tis, so 'tis," said the old man, feeling flattered by attention from a young man of such distinguished appearance.

"I suppose you live in the country?"

"Yes, I am from Orange County."

"The finest part of the State. If my business did not keep me in the city I should like very much to make my residence there."

"What might your business be?" asked the old man, with natural curiosity.

"I am a broker, sir, in Wall Street. Of course you have heard of Wall Street."

"Oh, yes," answered the old man, proud of his familiarity with the name of this famous street. "Is it a pooty good business?"

"Well, that depends on circumstances. Sometimes I make money hand over hand, but for the last month I give you my word I probably haven't made over two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred dollars in a month!" repeated the farmer. "Why, that's doing first rate, I call it."

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

"Not for a broker," he said. "Why if I make less than five hundred I don't call it much."

"Five hundred dollars a month?" asked the farmer, much impressed.

"Yes."

"Why, that's six thousand dollars a year."

"Exactly. You are good in arithmetic," said the young man, languidly.

"Is—is there any chance to go into that business?" asked the Orange County man, eagerly.

"My friend, I would hardly advise you to go into it. You are rather old to begin a new business."

"That's so, but I don't ask for myself. I've got a son—he's my youngest son—a young man of twenty-five, who's anxious to get something to do in the city. He ain't much good on a farm—don't seem to like it. He's read a good many books and stories about New York city, and he wants to come here. I wish I could get him a chance to learn the broker business. You haven't a place in your office now, have you?"

The young swell laughed in his sleeve.

"I've hooked the old man," he said to himself. "Now if I work my cards right, I shall be able to make something out of him."

"My friend," he said, "I can't tell you at once, but I will think it over, and—see you to-morrow morning."

He had not intended to finish his sentence thus, but just then he espied at the door of the reading room a small, quiet-looking man whose glance rested for a moment upon him. He knew—he had reason to know—that this was Richard Darke, a well-known detective.

He rose from his seat and sauntered to the door, and in two minutes he was one of the motley crowd that throng Broadway.