On the next day the bindery was opened as usual, but Mr. Islen did not appear, having gone to Philadelphia. Jerry worked throughout the day, wondering what Alexander Slocum had thought and done after he had discovered the escape. Little did the young oarsman dream of what the real estate dealer was then doing.

Our hero was proving himself to be skillful at the work assigned to him and the foreman often praised him.

“You’ll be worth a raise in wages,” he said. “I never saw a boy take hold as you do.”

Jerry never delayed after the day’s work was over. He washed up, put on his coat, and hurried forth to his boarding place.

When Jerry reached the house he found little Dottie on the stoop, with Tommy in her arms. Tommy was crying for something to eat, and the little girl was having her hands full with him.

“Where is Miss Nellie?” asked our hero in some surprise.

“I don’t know,” returned the girl. “She sent me out with Tommy after dinner, and when I tried to get in after awhile the door was locked and she was gone.”

“And you have been sitting here ever since?”

“Yes.”

“Come up. I’ll open the door.”

Jerry led the way, and with a night key opened the door to the kitchen.

A cry of surprise burst from his lips. Everywhere were the signs of a desperate struggle. Two of the chairs were overturned, the table-cloth hung half off the table, and Nellie Ardell’s sewing was strewn in all directions.

“This is Slocum’s work!”

Those were the words which arose to the youth’s lips as he surveyed the situation in the kitchen.

Alexander Slocum had tried to get him out of the way, and now he had tried the same plan upon Nellie Ardell.

There had been a fierce struggle, of that there was not the slightest doubt.

But the girl had been overpowered in the end and taken off.

To where?

That was the all-important question.

While our hero was gazing around the room, little Tommy was crying at the top of his lungs.

To quiet him, Jerry gave him his bowl of bread and milk, and also gave Dottie her supper.

Then Jerry began a minute examination of the rooms.

There was mud on the oil-cloth—the tracks of four boots.

“Slocum and Casey, his book-keeper,” he said to himself.

Going below he interviewed Mrs. Flannigan, a good-natured Irish woman who lived on the next floor.

“Did you see Miss Ardell this afternoon?”

“Sure, an’ Oi did not Oi was out,” she replied.

He next tried the janitress, who lived in the basement. She was a peppery old woman who seldom had a pleasant word for anybody.

“Did I see her? Yes, she went out with two men about two hours ago,” she said.

“What sort of looking men?”

“I can’t say—I’m not taking notice of everybody who comes and goes.”

“But this is important, Mrs. Foley. I am afraid something has happened to Miss Ardell.”

“They were tall men, and I guess both had big black mustaches and beards.”

“Where did she go with them?”

“Into a carriage. All of ’em seemed to be in a big hurry.”

“Which way did the carriage go?”

“Down towards the Brooklyn ferry.”

In a thoughtful mood, the young oarsman walked back upstairs. He met Mrs. Flannigan outside of the door.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Upton?”

“That is what I am trying to find out. Miss Ardell is missing. If I go out, will you look after the children?”

“Sure, Oi will, bless the dears,” she said. Her heart was as large as her ruddy, full-blown face.

Without waiting longer, Jerry ran down into the street and endeavored to trace the carriage down to the ferry. In this he was successful, and learned that the turnout containing two men and a young lady, who appeared to be ill, had crossed to Brooklyn.

By this time night had set in, and all efforts to follow the carriage proved unsuccessful. Yet unwilling to give up, Jerry spent over two hours in Brooklyn, hunting in every direction for a clew.

Our hero had never been across the East River before, and in hunting around it was but natural that he should get lost. At the end of the search he found himself a good distance from the river, in a neighborhood that looked anything but respectable.

“It’s time I got back,” thought the youth, and started to make inquiries.

“You’re a dozen blocks out of your way,” said a man. “Go down that way three blocks, and turn to your left.”

As Jerry walked along a somewhat gloomy street, he noticed three men walking ahead of him. One was a tall, finely built man, wearing a large round hat, of the western type.

The other men were short fellows, each with a red mustache. They carried heavy canes and walked on either side of the tall individual.

“Aren’t we almost there?” Jerry heard the tall man ask, as he drew closer to the trio.

“Yes, it ain’t but a step further,” was the reply from one of the short men.

“You are certain this Crazy Jim is the man I am after?”

“Oh, yes.”

The mentioning of Crazy Jim’s name interested Jerry. Crazy Jim was still up on Blackwell’s Island. It was possible, however, that they referred to some other individual.

To hear what further they might have to say the young oarsman kept close to the party.

“It’s been a long hunt for me, gentlemen,” said the tall man, and by his speech Jerry felt sure he was a westerner. “But if I am on the right trail, things will soon come out right.”

“What do you want to find Crazy Jim for?” asked one of the short men.

“I’m not saying anything about that just now,” was the cool response.

“Oh, excuse me, of course not.” The short fellow looked around, but failed to catch sight of our hero. “Jack, how about a smoke?” he said to the other short fellow.

“Strike a light,” was the answer.

The words were evidently a secret signal, for hardly were they spoken when one of the short men caught the westerner from behind and held his arms.

“Here, what’s the meaning of this?” cried the man, in alarm.

“Keep still, old man, and we won’t hurt you. Raise a row and you’ll get knocked out. Quick, Pete, with his diamond pin and that roll of bills in his left pocket!”

At this command the man in front rushed in and caught hold of the man’s pin. Out it came in his hand, a beautiful affair, worth at least a hundred dollars.

“Stop! stop!” yelled the westerner. “Police! police!”

“Shut up!” hissed the man who held him. “Pete, crack him over the head. We can’t afford to take any chances here.”

Thus ordered, the man who held the diamond pin slipped it into his pocket. Then he raised his heavy cane and started to do as bidden when Jerry rushed at him.

“Stop! Don’t hit that man!”

The rascal was surprised.

“Who are you? Oh, it’s only a boy. Clear out of here!”

“I won’t! You let that man alone.”

“Don’t leave me,” pleaded the victim. “They want to rob me. He has my diamond pin!”

“Shut up!” howled the man in the rear. “Crack him, Pete, and crack the boy, too.”

Once more the heavy cane was raised. Our hero caught it in the center, and by a dexterous twist wrenched it from the rascal’s hand.

With a howl of baffled rage the rascal turned and caught Jerry by the throat.

“Give me that stick, boy, or I’ll choke the life out of you!” he hissed into the youth’s ear.