Soon after supper Crawford Lane said: "Suppose we go to some theater this evening. It will pass away the time pleasantly."

Scott looked pained.

"Mr. Lane," he said, "you seem to forget that it is scarcely more than a week since my poor father died."

"Excuse me, Scott. I ought to have remembered it. Shall you miss me if I leave you to spend the evening alone?"

"No, Mr. Lane. On some accounts I should prefer to be alone."

"Very well. You need not sit up for me, as I shall return late. Go to bed when you feel inclined, and we shall meet in the morning. So long!"

Scott remained in the office of the hotel. He did not object to being left alone, for he was forced to acknowledge that he did not care much for the company of Crawford Lane.

Circumstances had thrown them together, and Lane had been of some service to him in his absolute ignorance of the city, but Scott resolved to break away from him as soon as possible.

Looking toward the desk, he espied a copy of the New York directory.

That gave him an idea. He would look up the name of Ezra Little, and find out where he lived and what his business was.

Turning over the pages of the bulky volume, he came to the letter L. There was a long list of Littles. Finally, he found Ezra Little, dry goods, No. 849 Eighth Avenue; house, 392 West Forty-seventh Street.

"I will go to see him to-morrow," thought Scott, hopefully. "Since he has a store, he may find a place for me."

Just off the ship, he found that walking about the streets had fatigued him, and he went to bed about nine o'clock.

Lane had requested him to leave the door unlocked, so that he might get in without difficulty on his return from the theater. Indeed, Scott was obliged to do this, as Lane had carried off the key, intentionally or otherwise.

It has already been mentioned that Scott had divided his small capital into two equal parts, one of which he placed in the original envelope in his coat pocket, the other in an inside pocket in his vest.

The coat he hung over a chair, but the vest he thought it prudent to place under his pillow.

It was not long before Scott was sound asleep. He found himself more fatigued than he had supposed.

Crawford Lane had gone to Niblo's Theater, where there was a showy spectacular play which suited his fancy. On his way home, he stepped into a hotel, where he picked up a copy of the New York Herald.

He looked it over listlessly, but all at once he started in surprise, not unmixed with dismay. In the list of passengers on the Etruria, which had arrived very early the previous evening, he saw the name of Justin Wood.

There was nothing remarkable about the name, but it so happened that it had peculiar associations for Crawford Lane.

Seven weeks before, he had gone abroad with Justin Wood, a wealthy young man, as his companion. Wood was liberal, and he had taken a fancy to Lane to such an extent that he offered to defray his expenses on a short European trip.

In London, Crawford Lane managed to rob his companion of a considerable sum of money, and, of course, disappeared directly afterward.

For three weeks he spent money profusely. At the end of that time, he had barely enough left to buy a ticket for New York by the ship Arcturus.

When he landed, his funds had dwindled to three dollars, but he expected to increase them by appropriating the Bank of England notes which he learned were in the possession of Scott Walton.

But the arrival of Justin Wood complicated matters. He must keep out of the way of the man he had robbed, and this would not be easy while both were in the same city.

"Suppose he had been at the theater this evening!" he said to himself, nervously.

As Justin Wood was an athlete, an encounter would probably have been far from pleasant for his faithless friend.

Crawford Lane pursued his way homeward in a very serious frame of mind.

"It is lucky," he thought, "that fate has thrown in my way this green boy. With his hundred dollars I will start to-morrow for Chicago, and stay there for the present. That will keep me out of the way of Justin Wood."

It was about midnight when Lane reached the hotel on the Bowery. He went upstairs at once.

As he lit the gas he turned his gaze on the bed near the window. Scott was fast asleep, with one arm thrown carelessly over the quilt.

"Sleeping like a top!" murmured Lane. "These young boys always sleep sound. I used to when I was a boy. I had an easy conscience then," he continued, with a half laugh. "I'm not quite so innocent as I was, but I know a lot more. Well, I must get to bed, for I must be up bright and early to-morrow morning."

He carefully locked the door, for he did not want anyone else to anticipate him in his dishonest plans.

Crawford Lane slept rather later than he intended. When, upon opening his eyes, he consulted his watch he found that it was half-past seven o'clock.

"I ought to have been up an hour ago," he said to himself. "Suppose the boy is awake, all my plans would be upset."

He dressed in great haste, and then, with one eye upon the sleeping boy, tiptoed to the chair over which Scott's coat was hanging, and drew out the envelope from the inside pocket.

He would have examined the contents, but Scott stirred slightly, and Lane felt that it would be the part of prudence to leave the room at once.

He went downstairs and reported at the desk, valise in hand.

"I am obliged to take an early train for the West," he said, "and will settle my part of the bill."

"Will the boy remain?"

"Yes; his uncle will call for him during the day."

"Very well, sir. Breakfast is on the table."

"I shall not be able to stop, as I am already late. I left the boy asleep. If he inquires for me you may tell him I will write him from—Buffalo."

"Very well, sir."

Lane went out and got breakfast on Fulton Street.

"I hope I have seen the youngster for the last time," he said to himself.

There was one awkward thing in his way. He would have preferred to leave the city at once, but outside of the English notes, he had scarcely any money, and it would be necessary to wait till ten o'clock, when he could call at some broker's and exchange them for American bills.

Lane went into the Astor House and entered one of the small reading rooms on the second floor.

Then, for the first time, he opened the envelope and examined his booty.

To his great disappointment, he found but half the sum he expected to find—but ten pounds in place of twenty.

"Confusion!" he muttered. "Was the boy deceiving me? He certainly said that he had twenty pounds."

The explanation of the discrepancy readily suggested itself. The boy had placed the balance of the notes somewhere else.

"I wish I had had the sense to examine the envelope before I left the room."

But the boy might have waked up, and though he regretted not having taken all his money, Lane felt that he must make the ten pounds do.

Meanwhile Scott slept on till eight o'clock.

When he opened his eyes he looked over to the other bed. Evidently it had been slept in, but it seemed now to be unoccupied.

It occurred to Scott as singular that his companion, who must have got to bed late, should have risen so early, but no suspicion of wrong-doing entered his mind till he put on his coat. Then he discovered at once the disappearance of the envelope.

Scott was startled.

"He has stolen my money," he instantly decided.

He felt in the pocket of his vest. The other ten notes were there, fortunately, but Scott was by no means satisfied to give up the ten he had lost. He hurried down the stairs, and in some excitement went up to the hotel clerk.