SEVERAL persons were standing near Tom, but no one who looked like his nocturnal acquaintance of Wilton.

“I suppose I am ahead of time,” thought our hero.

Just then a well-dressed gentleman, swinging a light bamboo cane, approached and tapped Tom lightly on the arm.

“I see you are on hand my young friend,” said the new-comer.

Tom glanced quickly at the man who had spoken to him.

He saw a gentleman, handsomely dressed, with a heavy gold chain depending from his waistcoat, and having every appearance of a man not only well-to-do, but rich.

“Haven’t you made a mistake, sir?” he asked, in a puzzled manner.

“No, I think not. You are Thomas Thatcher, from Wilton, are you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you don’t remember me?”

“Surely, you are not——”

“Darius Darke, at your service. So you didn’t know me?”

“No, sir; you don’t look much like the man I saw in Wilton the night of the fire.”

“Speak low,” said the other. “I don’t care, for reasons of my own, to be identified as that man. We must continue our conversation in a place more retired. Come up to my room;” and he turned to enter the hotel.

“Do you live here?” asked Tom, amazed, for to live in the Astor House, as he understood, required a long purse.

“Yes; follow me.”

He led the way up-stairs, and introduced Tom into a pleasant room on the third floor.

“Now, sit down, Thomas, and make yourself at home. Confess, you are surprised at my transformation?”

“I certainly am, sir.”

“Did you expect to see the same disreputable-looking tramp who appeared to you on that eventful evening?”

“Well, not exactly, sir, for your sending me the ten-dollar bill—for which I thank you—showed that you must have improved in your circumstances.”

“But you were not prepared for quite so great a change?” said Darius Darke, as he drew out a handsome gold watch and noted the time.

“No, sir; but then, of course, I knew very little about you.”

“You thought I was burned with the old barn, eh?” “Yes.”

“How did John Simpson account to his neighbors for the fire?”

“He said he had let you sleep in the barn, and neglected to caution you about smoking. He thought you had set the building on fire in that way.”

Darius Darke laughed grimly.

“John Simpson is a crafty man,” he said, “but he overreached himself this time, or perhaps I should say that I overreached him. My young friend, I may say to you that I have not smoked for years—certainly, I did not smoke on that eventful night.”

“Then how did the barn catch fire?” asked Tom, a good deal puzzled.

“It was set on fire.”

“Did you——”

“No, I did not set the barn on fire; I could have no object in doing it. The fire was kindled by John Simpson himself.”

“Do you mean it?” asked Tom, his eyes wide open with surprise.

“Yes, I mean it.”

“But why should he want to burn down his own property?”

“He wanted to burn me up in it,” answered Darius, coolly.

“Why should he be so wicked?” asked Tom, more and more surprised.

“Hark you, my young friend, John Simpson is a much more wicked and desperate man than you have an idea of. He has reasons for wishing to get me out of the way. I know a secret of his which may give him trouble.”

“How did you escape, Mr. Darke?”

Darius Darke explained to Tom how he had been induced to change his bed and remove to the stable. He explained furthermore how he had chanced to see Mr. Simpson setting fire to the building.

“I understood at once his motive,” continued Mr. Darke, “and I resolved to watch the issue of this act. When the building was in flames, and the crowd around it, I saw all from the stable where I was safely hidden. It was not till all was over, and the crowd had dispersed, that I ventured to leave my retreat, and take up my line of march from the place which had come near proving my grave. I came at once to New York, and here I have been ever since. But there is one thing I have not explained to you. You wonder, no doubt, how the penniless tramp succeeded in assuming the dress and position of a gentleman in easy circumstances.”

Tom admitted that this was a matter which he could not understand.

“Then I will explain. After leaving you I called upon Mr. Simpson. He did not at first recognize me, but I succeeded in recalling myself to his remembrance. He was not glad to see me. In fact, he heartily wished me at the remotest corner of the globe, I make no doubt, but he was, nevertheless, prevailed to hand over to me five hundred dollars. I see you look surprised,” continued Darius Darke. “He did not dare to do otherwise! I knew that about him which gave me a hold upon him. Well, it was so late that it seemed necessary to remain in Wilton till morning. In my wretched attire I could not secure a lodging at the tavern, and my kind host offered me the hospitality of his barn. I don’t think at the moment he had any designs upon my life. Otherwise he would have suggested that I leave the money in his hands till the next day, and thus avoid the danger of burning it up.”

“I was thinking of that, Mr. Darke,” said Tom.

“It would naturally occur to any one. I suppose that after I had left him the idea of this easy way of ridding himself of me occurred to my old friend Simpson, and although he was likely to sacrifice the money, he doubtless thought it would save him from any more involuntary loans. So he went out after midnight, when I might be supposed to have fallen asleep, and kindled the fire.”

“The next morning he accused me of setting the fire,” said Tom.

“The scoundrel! I can see his object, however. He hates you almost as much as he does me.”

“I don’t see why he should hate me,” said Tom.

“People are sure to hate those whom they have injured. That is a lesson I have learned in a rather varied career.”

“I don’t know that Mr. Simpson has tried to injure me, unless by discharging me from his employment.”

“Hasn’t he taken you back again?”

“No.” “I think he would like to drive you out of the village,” said Mr. Darke, thoughtfully. “The sight of you is unpleasant to him.”

“Why should it be?”

“Why? I will tell you presently. But I must first proceed with my own story. I arrived in New York with the five hundred dollars which my kind friend Simpson had given me. My first business, as you can well imagine, was to procure a more suitable dress; in other words, to restore myself to society by assuming a respectable appearance. That did not take long. I ran across a friend of more prosperous days, and learned that he was in business in Wall Street, as a broker. He gave me a valuable point, bought for me a line of stocks, which went up five per cent. the first day, and, in brief, has so manipulated my little fund that the five hundred dollars which I brought from Wilton have already increased to five thousand.”

“I didn’t think such things were possible,” said Tom, dazzled by the recital of this remarkable success.

“They are possible but not probable. The probability was that I should lose all my money, or at any rate, the greater part of it, but fortune happened to be propitious, and I am a rich man, that is, I consider myself so. As three weeks since I hadn’t a penny, you may consider that I am justified in my view.”

“I should consider myself rich with one thousand dollars,” said Tom.

“No doubt, but your ideas will grow. You will understand now why I venture to take a room at a fashionable hotel.” “Yes, sir.”

“And now it is time to tell you my object in sending for you.”

“I wish he would make me his private secretary,” thought Tom.

“It was to reveal to you a secret which you ought to know—the secret of the hold I have upon John Simpson. Since he made that atrocious attempt upon my life I owe him no consideration. I do not require his help, and I declare myself his bitter foe. I forsake him, and I devote myself to you.”

He spoke with energy, and Tom listened in surprise and bewilderment. He was not sure of Mr. Darke’s sanity.