The door was opened by a slatternly-looking woman, who looked as if she had just got up.

"I see by the Sun you have a room to let," said Frank.

"Yes; do you want to see it now?"

"I should like to."

"Come upstairs and I will show you the room."

The room proved to be small, and by no means neat in appearance, but the rent was only a dollar and a quarter a week, and Frank felt that he could not afford to be particular, so he quickly closed the bargain.

The next day, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, he was surprised at seeing Mrs. Bradley enter the store and thread her way to that part of the counter where her nephew was stationed. She darted one quick look at him, but gave him no sign of recognition. His heart sank within him, for he had a presentiment that her visit boded fresh evil for him.



CHAPTER XV

FROM BAD TO WORSE

Frank's misgivings were not without good cause. The housekeeper's call at the store was connected with him. How, will be understood from a conversation which took place that morning between her and John Wade.

"It's a relief to get that boy out of the house, Mrs. Bradley," he said at the breakfast table.

"That it is, Mr. John," she replied. "But he'll be trying to get back, take my word for it."

"He won't dare to," said John Wade, incredulously. "I told him if he came near the house I would give him up to the police."

"I am afraid he will write to your uncle. He's bold enough for anything."

"I didn't think of that," said John, thoughtfully.

"Do you know his handwriting, Mrs. Bradley?"

"I think I should know it."

"Then if any letters come which you know to be from him, keep them back from my uncle."

"What shall I do with them?"

"Give them to me. I don't want my uncle worried by his appeals."

"Your uncle seems to be very attached to him. He may go to the store to see him."

"That is true. I should not like that. How shall we prevent it, that's the question."

"If Gilbert & Mack knew that he was not honest they would discharge him."

"Exactly," said John Wade; "and as probably he would be unable to get another situation, he would be compelled to leave the city, and we should get rid of him. I commend your shrewdness, Mrs. Bradley. Your plan is most excellent."

John Wade had more reasons than the housekeeper knew of for desiring the removal of our young hero from the city—reasons which the reader has probably guessed. There was a dark secret in his life connected with a wrong done in years past, from which he hoped some day to reap personal benefit. Unconsciously Frank Fowler stood in his way, and must be removed. Such was his determination.

"I am going out this morning," said the housekeeper. "I will make it in my way to call at Gilbert & Mack's. My nephew is a salesman there, as I have told you. I will drop a word in his ear, and that will be enough to settle that boy's hash."

"Your language is professional, Mrs. Bradley," said John Wade, laughing, "but you shouldn't allude to hash in an aristocratic household. I shall be glad to have you carry out your plan."

"I hope you'll speak to your uncle about my nephew, Mr. John. He gets very poor pay where he is."

"I won't forget him," said John, carelessly.

In his heart he thought Thomas Bradley a very low, obtrusive fellow, whom he felt by no means inclined to assist, but it was cheap to make promises.

The reader understands now why Mrs. Bradley made a morning call at Gilbert & Mack's store.

She knew at what part of the counter her nephew was stationed, and made her way thither at once. He did not at first recognize her, until she said:

"Good-morning, Thomas."

"Good-morning, aunt. What brings you here this morning? Any good news for me? Has the old gentleman come around and concluded to do something handsome?"

"Mr. Wharton is not in the city. He has gone to Washington. But that isn't what I came about this morning. You remember that boy who has been reading to Mr. Wharton?"

"One of our cash-boys. Yes; there he is, just gone by."

"Well, he has stolen Mr. John's pocketbook and some jewelry belonging to him."

"What have you done about it? What does Mr. Wharton say?"

"He's away from home. He doesn't know yet. Mr. John gave him a lecture, and ordered him to leave the house."

"Does he admit that he took the things?"

"No; he denied it as bold as brass, but it didn't do him any good. There were the things in his trunk. He couldn't get over that."

Thomas fastened a shrewd glance on his aunt's face, for he suspected the truth.

"So you've got rid of him?" he said. "What do you propose to do next?"

"Mr. John thinks your employer ought to know that he is a thief."

"Are you going to tell them?"

"I want you to do it."

"You must tell them yourself, aunt. I shan't."

"Then introduce me to Mr. Gilbert, Thomas, and I'll do it."

"Follow me, aunt."

He led his aunt to the rear of the store, where Mr. Gilbert was standing.

"Mr. Gilbert," he said, "allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Bradley."

The housekeeper was courteously received, and invited to be seated. She soon opened her business, and blackened poor Frank's character as she had intended.

"Really, Mrs. Bradley, I am sorry to hear this," said Mr. Gilbert. "You think there is no doubt of the boy's guilt?"

"I am sorry to say that I have no doubt at all," said the housekeeper, hypocritically.

"Mr. Mack and myself have had a very good opinion of him. He is faithful and prompt."

"Of course, sir, you will retain him in your employ if you are willing to take the risk, but I thought it my duty to put you on your guard."

"I am obliged to you, Mrs. Bradley; though, as I said, I regret to find that my confidence in the boy has been misplaced."

Late in the afternoon, Frank was called to the cashier's desk.

"I am directed by Mr. Gilbert to say that your services will not be required after to-day," he said. "Here are the week's wages."

"Why am I discharged? What have I done?" demanded Frank, while his heart sank within him.

"I don't know. You must ask Mr. Gilbert," answered the cashier.

"I will speak to him, at any rate," and Frank walked up to the senior partner, and addressed to him the same question.

"Can you not guess?" asked Mr. Gilbert, sternly.

"I can guess that a false accusation has been brought against me," said Frank.

"A respectable lady has informed me that you are not honest. I regret it, for I have been pleased with your diligence. Of course, I cannot retain you in my employ."

"Mr. Gilbert," said Frank, earnestly, "the charge is false. Mrs. Bradley is my enemy, and wishes me harm. I don't understand how the things came into my trunk, but I didn't put them there."

"I hope you are innocent, but I must discharge you. Business is dull now, and I had decided to part with four of my cash-boys. I won't pass judgment upon you, but you must go."

Frank bowed in silence, for he saw that further entreaty would be vain, and left the store more dispirited than at any moment since he had been in the city.

Ten days Frank spent in fruitless efforts to obtain a place.

All this time his money steadily diminished. He perceived that he would soon be penniless. Evidently, something must be done. He formed two determinations. The first was to write to Mr. Wharton, who, he thought, must now have returned from Washington, asserting his innocence and appealing to him to see Gilbert & Mack, and re-establish him in their confidence. The second was, since he could not obtain a regular place, to frequent the wharves and seek chances to carry bundles. In this way he might earn enough, with great economy, to pay for his board and lodging.

One morning the housekeeper entered the library where John Wade sat reading the daily papers.

"Mr. John," she said, holding out a letter, "here is a letter from that boy. I expected he would write to your uncle."

John Wade deliberately opened the letter.

"Sit down, Mrs. Bradley, and I will read the letter aloud."

It will be only necessary to quote the concluding sentences:

"'I hope, Mr. Wharton, you will not be influenced against me by what Mrs. Bradley and your nephew say. I don't know why it is, but they are my enemies, though I have always treated them with respect. I am afraid they have a desire to injure me in your estimation. If they had not been, they would have been content with driving me from your house, without also slandering me to my employers, and inducing them to discharge me. Since I was discharged, I have tried very hard to get another place, but as I cannot bring a recommendation from Gilbert & Mack, I have everywhere been refused. I ask you, Mr. Wharton to consider my situation. Already my small supply of money is nearly gone, and I do not know how I am to pay my expenses. If it was any fault of mine that had brought me into this situation, I would not complain, but it seems hard to suffer when I am innocent.

"'I do not ask to return to your house, Mr. Wharton, for it would not be pleasant, since your nephew and Mrs. Bradley dislike me, but I have a right to ask that the truth may be told to my employers, so that if they do not wish me to return to their service, they may, at least, be willing to give me a recommendation that will give me a place elsewhere."'

"I must prevent the boy communicating with my uncle, if it is a possible thing. 'Strike while the iron is hot,' I say."

"I think that is very judicious, Mr. John. I have no doubt you will know how to manage matters."

John Wade dressed himself for a walk, and drawing out a cigar, descended the steps of his uncle's house into the street.

He reached Fifth Avenue, and walked slowly downtown. He was about opposite Twenty-eighth Street, when he came face to face with the subject of his thoughts.

"Where are you going?" John Wade demanded sternly.

"I don't know that I am bound to answer your question," answered Frank, quietly, "but I have no objection. I am going to Thirty-ninth Street with this bundle."

"Hark you, boy! I have something to say to you," continued John Wade, harshly. "You have had the impudence to write to my uncle."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing that you would like to hear. He looks upon you as a thief."

"You have slandered me to him, Mr. Wade," he said, angrily. "You might be in better business than accusingly a poor boy falsely."

"Hark you, young man! I have had enough of your impudence. I will give you a bit of advice, which you will do well to follow. Leave this city for a place where you are not known, or I may feel disposed to shut you up on a charge of theft."

"I shall not leave the city, Mr. Wade," returned Frank, firmly. "I shall stay here in spite of you," and without waiting for an answer, he walked on.



CHAPTER XVI

AN ACCOMPLICE FOUND

No sooner had John Wade parted from our hero than he saw approaching him a dark, sinister-looking man, whom he had known years before.

"Good-morning, Mr. Wade," said the newcomer.

"Good-morning, Mr. Graves. Are you busy just now?"

"No, sir; I am out of employment. I have been unfortunate."

"Then I will give you a job. Do you see that boy?" said John Wade, rapidly.

"Yes, I see him."

"I want you to follow him. Find out where he lives, and let me know this evening. Do you understand?"

"I understand. You may rely upon me, sir," answered Nathan Graves; and quickening his pace, he soon came within a hundred feet of our hero.

After fulfilling his errand, Frank walked downtown again, but did not succeed in obtaining any further employment. Wherever he went, he was followed by Graves. Unconsciously, he exhausted the patience of that gentleman, who got heartily tired of his tramp about the streets. But the longest day will come to an end, and at last he had the satisfaction of tracking Frank to his humble lodging. Then, and not till then, he felt justified in leaving him.

Nathan Graves sought the residence of John Wade. He rang the bell as the clock struck eight.

"Well, what success?" asked Wade, when they met.

"I have tracked the boy. What more can I do for you?" asked Graves.

"I want to get him away from the city. The fact is—I may as well tell you—my uncle has taken a great fancy to the boy, and might be induced to adopt him, and cut me off from my rightful inheritance. The boy is an artful young rascal, and has been doing all he could to get into the good graces of my uncle, who is old and weak-minded."

It was nine o'clock when Nathan Graves left the house, John Wade himself accompanying him to the door.

"How soon do you think you can carry out my instructions?" asked Wade.

"To-morrow, if possible."

"The sooner the better."

"It is lucky I fell in with him," said Nathan Graves to himself, with satisfaction, as he slowly walked down Fifth Avenue. "It's a queer business, but that's none of my business. The main thing for me to consider is that it brings money to my purse, and of that I have need enough."

Graves left the house richer by a hundred dollars than he entered it.

It was eleven o'clock on the forenoon of the next day when Frank walked up Canal Street toward Broadway. He had been down to the wharves since early in the morning, seeking for employment. He had offered his services to many, but as yet had been unable to secure a job.

As he was walking along a man addressed him:

"Will you be kind enough to direct me to Broadway?"

It was Nathan Graves, with whom Frank was destined to have some unpleasant experiences.

"Straight ahead," answered Frank. "I am going there, and will show you, if you like."

"Thank you, I wish you would. I live only fifteen or twenty miles distant," said Graves, "but I don't often come to the city, and am not much acquainted. I keep a dry-goods store, but my partner generally comes here to buy goods. By the way, perhaps you can help me about the errand that calls me here today."

"I will, sir, if I can," said Frank, politely.

"My youngest clerk has just left me, and I want to find a successor—a boy about your age, say. Do you know any one who would like such a position?"

"I am out of employment myself just now. Do you think I will suit?"

"I think you will," said Mr. Graves.

"You won't object to go into the country?"

"No, sir."

"I will give you five dollars a week and your board for the present. If you suit me, your pay will be raised at the end of six months. Will that be satisfactory?" asked his companion.

"Quite so, sir. When do you wish me to come?"

"Can you go out with me this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir. I only want to go home and pack up my trunk."

"To save time, I will go with you, and we will start as soon as possible."

Nathan Graves accompanied Frank to his room, where his scanty wardrobe was soon packed. A hack was called, and they were speedily on their way to the Cortland Street ferry.

They crossed the ferry, and Mr. Graves purchased two tickets to Elizabeth. He bought a paper, and occupied himself in reading. Frank felt that fortune had begun to shine upon him once more. By and by, he could send for Grace, and get her boarded near him. As soon as his wages were raised, he determined to do this. While engaged in these pleasant speculations, they reached the station.

"We get out here," said Mr. Graves.

"Is your store in this place?" asked Frank.

"No; it is in the next town."

Nathan Graves looked about him for a conveyance. He finally drove a bargain with a man driving a shabby-looking vehicle, and the two took their seats.

They were driven about six miles through a flat, unpicturesque country, when they reached a branch road leading away from the main one.

It was a narrow road, and apparently not much frequented. Frank could see no houses on either side.

"Is your store on this road?" he asked.

"Oh, no; but I am not going to the store yet. We will go to my house, and leave your trunk."

At length the wagon stopped, by Graves' orders, in front of a gate hanging loosely by one hinge.

"We'll get out here," said Graves.

Frank looked with some curiosity, and some disappointment, at his future home. It was a square, unpainted house, discolored by time, and looked far from attractive. There were no outward signs of occupation, and everything about it appeared to have fallen into decay. Not far off was a barn, looking even more dilapidated than the house.

At the front door, instead of knocking—there was no bell—Graves drew a rusty key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. They found themselves in a small entry, uncarpeted and dingy.

"We'll go upstairs," said Graves.

Arrived on the landing, he threw open a door, and ushered in our hero.

"This will be your room," he said.

Frank looked around in dismay.

It was a large, square room, uncarpeted, and containing only a bed, two chairs and a washstand, all of the cheapest and rudest manufacture.

"I hope you will soon feel at home here," said Graves. "I'll go down and see if I can find something to eat."

He went out, locking the door behind him

"What does this mean?" thought Frank, with a strange sensation.



CHAPTER XVII

FRANK AND HIS JAILER

It was twenty minutes before Frank, waiting impatiently, heard the steps of his late companion ascending the stairs.

But the door was not unlocked. Instead, a slide was revealed, about eight inches square, through which his late traveling companion pushed a plate of cold meat and bread.

"Here's something to eat," he said; "take it."

"Why do you lock me in?" demanded our hero.

"You can get along without knowing, I suppose," said the other, with a sneer.

"I don't mean to," said Frank, firmly. "I demand an explanation. How long do you intend to keep me here?"

"I am sorry I can't gratify your curiosity, but I don't know myself."

"Perhaps you think that I am rich, but I am not. I have no money. You can't get anything out of me," said Frank.

"That may be so, but I shall keep you."

"I suppose that was all a lie about your keeping store?"

"It was a pretty little story, told for your amusement, my dear boy," said Graves. "I was afraid you wouldn't come without it."

"You are a villain!" said Frank.

"Look here, boy," said Graves, in a different tone, his face darkening, "you had better not talk in that way. I advise you to eat your dinner and be quiet. Some supper will be brought to you before night."

So saying, he abruptly closed the slide, and descended the stairs, leaving Frank to his reflections, which it may be supposed, were not of the pleasantest character.

Frank did not allow his unpleasant situation to take away his appetite, and though he was fully determined to make the earliest possible attempt to escape, he was sensible enough first to eat the food which his jailer had brought him.

His lunch dispatched, he began at once to revolve plans of escape.

There were three windows in the room, two on the front of the house, the other at the side.

He tried one after another, but the result was the same. All were so fastened that it was quite impossible to raise them.

Feeling that he could probably escape through one of the windows when he pleased, though at the cost of considerable trouble, Frank did not trouble himself much, or allow himself to feel unhappy. He decided to continue his explorations.

In the corner of the room was a door, probably admitting to a closet.

"I suppose it is locked," thought Frank, but on trying it, he found that such was not the case. He looked curiously about him, but found little to repay him. His attention was drawn, however to several dark-colored masks lying upon a shelf.

He also discovered a small hole in the wall of the size of a marble. Actuated by curiosity, he applied his eye to the opening, and peeped into what was probably the adjoining room. It was furnished in very much the same way as the one in which he was confined, but at present it was untenanted. Having seen what little there was to be seen, Frank withdrew from his post of observation and returned to his room.

It was several hours later when he again heard steps ascending the stairs, and the slide in the door was moved.

He looked toward it, but the face that he saw was not that of Nathan Graves.

It was the face of a woman.



CHAPTER XVIII

"OVER THE HILL TO THE POORHOUSE"

We are compelled for a time to leave our hero in the hands of his enemies, and return to the town of Crawford, where an event has occurred which influences seriously the happiness and position of his sister, Grace.

Ever since Frank left the town, Grace had been a welcome member of Mr. Pomeroy's family, receiving the kindest treatment from all, so that she had come to feel very much at home.

So they lived happily together, till one disastrous night a fire broke out, which consumed the house, and they were forced to snatch their clothes and escape, saving nothing else.

Mr. Pomeroy's house was insured for two-thirds of its value, and he proposed to rebuild immediately, but it would be three months at least before the new house would be completed. In the interim, he succeeded in hiring a couple of rooms for his family, but their narrow accommodations would oblige them to dispense with their boarder. Sorry as Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy were to part with her, it was obvious that Grace must find another home.

"We must let Frank know," said Mr. Pomeroy, and having occasion to go up to the city at once to see about insurance, he went to the store of Gilbert & Mack, and inquired for Prank.

"Fowler? What was he?" was asked.

"A cash-boy."

"Oh, he is no longer here. Mr. Gilbert discharged him."

"Do you know why he was discharged?" asked Mr. Pomeroy, pained and startled.

"No; but there stands Mr. Gilbert. He can tell you."

Mr. Pomeroy introduced himself to the head of the firm and repeated his inquiry.

"If you are a friend of the lad," said Mr. Gilbert, "you will be sorry to learn that he was charged with dishonesty. It was a very respectable lady who made the charge. It is only fair to say that the boy denied it, and that, personally, we found him faithful and trusty. But as the dullness of trade compelled us to discharge some of our cash-boys, we naturally discharged him among the number, without, however, judging his case."

"Then, sir, you have treated the boy very unfairly. On the strength of a charge not proved, you have dismissed him, though personally you had noticed nothing out of the way in him, and rendered it impossible for him to obtain another place."

"There is something in what you say, I admit. Perhaps I was too hasty. If you will send the boy to me, I will take him back on probation."

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Pomeroy, gratefully "I will send him here."

But this Mr. Pomeroy was unable to do. He did not know of Frank's new address, and though he was still in the city, he failed to find him.

He returned to Crawford and communicated the unsatisfactory intelligence. He tried to obtain a new boarding place for Grace, but no one was willing to take her at two dollars a week, especially when Mr. Pomeroy was compelled to admit that Frank was now out of employment, and it was doubtful if he would be able to keep up the payment.

Tom Pinkerton managed to learn that Grace was now without a home, and mentioned it to his father.

"Won't she have to go to the poorhouse now, father?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," said Deacon Pinkerton. "There is no other place for her that I can see."

"Ah, I'm glad," said Tom, maliciously. "Won't that upstart's pride be taken down? He was too proud to go to the poorhouse, where he belonged, but he can't help his sister's going there. If he isn't a pauper himself, he'll be the brother of a pauper, and that's the next thing to it."

"That is true," said the deacon. "He was very impudent in return for my kindness. Still, I am sorry for him."

I am afraid the deacon's sorrow was not very deep, for he certainly looked unusually cheerful when he harnessed up his horse and drove around to the temporary home of the Pomeroys.

"Good-morning, Mr. Pomeroy," he said, seeing the latter in the yard. "You've met with a severe loss."

"Yes, deacon; it is a severe loss to a poor man like me."

"To be sure. Well, I've called around to relieve you of a part of your cares. I am going to take Grace Fowler to the poorhouse."

"Couldn't you get her a place with a private family to help about the house in return for her board, while she goes to school?"

"There's nobody wants a young girl like her," said the deacon.

"Her brother would pay part of her board—that is, when he has a place."

"Hasn't he got a place?" asked the deacon, pricking up his ears. "I heard he was in a store in New York."

"He lost his place," said Mr. Pomeroy, reluctantly, "partly because of the dullness of general trade."

"Then he can't maintain his sister. She will have to go to the poorhouse. Will you ask her to get ready, and I'll take her right over to the poorhouse."

There was no alternative. Mr. Pomeroy went into the house, and broke the sad news to his wife and Grace.

"Never mind," she said, with attempted cheerfulness, though her lips quivered, "I shan't have to stay there long. Frank will be sure to send for me very shortly."

"It's too bad, Grace," said Sam, looking red about the eyes; "it's too bad that you should have to go to the poorhouse."

"Come and see me, Sam," said Grace.

"Yes, I will, Grace. I'll come often, too. You shan't stay there long."

"Good-by," said Grace, faltering. "You have all been very kind to me."

"Good-by, my dear child," said Mrs. Pomeroy.

"Who knows but you can return to us when the new house is done?"

So poor Grace went out from her pleasant home to find the deacon, grim-faced and stern, waiting for her.

"Jump in, little girl," he said. "You've kept me waiting for you a long time, and my time is valuable."

The distance to the poorhouse was about a mile and a half. For the first half mile Deacon Pinkerton kept silence. Then he began to speak, in a tone of cold condescension, as if it were a favor for such a superior being to address an insignificant child, about to become a pauper.

"Little girl, have you heard from your brother lately?"

"Not very lately, sir."

"What is he doing?"

"He is in a store."

"I apprehend you are mistaken. He has lost his place. He has been turned away," said the deacon, with satisfaction.

"Frank turned away! Oh, sir, you must be mistaken."

"Mr. Pomeroy told me. He found out yesterday when he went to the city."

Poor Grace! she could not longer doubt now, and her brother's misfortune saddened her even more than her own.

"Probably you will soon see your brother."

"Oh, do you think so, sir?" asked Grace, joyfully.

"Yes," answered the deacon, grimly. "He will find himself in danger of starvation in the city, and he'll creep back, only too glad to obtain a nice, comfortable home in the poorhouse."

But Grace knew her brother better than that. She knew his courage, his self-reliance and his independent spirit, and she was sure the deacon was mistaken.

The home for which Grace was expected to be so grateful was now in sight. It was a dark, neglected looking house, situated in the midst of barren fields, and had a lonely and desolate aspect. It was superintended by Mr. and Mrs. Chase, distant relations of Deacon Pinkerton.

Mr. Chase was an inoffensive man, but Mrs. Chase had a violent temper. She was at work in the kitchen when Deacon Pinkerton drove up. Hearing the sound of wheels, she came to the door.

"Mrs. Chase," said the deacon, "I've brought you a little girl, to be placed under your care."

"What's her name?" inquired the lady.

"Grace Fowler."

"Grace, humph! Why didn't she have a decent name?"

"You can call her anything you like," said the deacon.

"Little girl, you must behave well," said Deacon Pinkerton, by way of parting admonition. "The town expects it. I expect it. You must never cease to be grateful for the good home which it provides you free of expense."

Grace did not reply. Looking in the face of her future task-mistress was scarcely calculated to awaken a very deep feeling of gratitude.

"Now," said Mrs. Chase, addressing her new boarder, "just take off your things, Betsy, and make yourself useful."

"My name isn't Betsy, ma'am."

"It isn't, isn't it?"

"No; it is Grace."

"You don't say so! I'll tell you one thing, I shan't allow anybody to contradict me here, and your name's got to be Betsy while you're in this house. Now take off your things and hang them up on that peg. I'm going to set you right to work."

"Yes, ma'am," said Grace, alarmed.

"There's some dishes I want washed, Betsy, and I won't have you loitering over your work, neither."

"Very well, ma'am."

Such was the new home for which poor Grace was expected to be grateful.



CHAPTER XIX

WHAT FRANK HEARD THROUGH THE CREVICE

Frank looked with some surprise at the woman who was looking through the slide of his door. He had expected to see Nathan Graves. She also regarded him with interest.

"I have brought you some supper," she said.

Frank reached out and drew in a small waiter, containing a cup of tea and a plate of toast.

"Thank you," he said. "Where is the man who brought me here?"

"He has gone out."

"Do you know why he keeps me here in confinement?"

"No," said the woman, hastily. "I know nothing. I see much, but I know nothing."

"Are many prisoners brought here as I have been?" asked our hero, in spite of the woman's refusal to speak.

"No."

"I can't understand what object they can have in detaining me. If I were rich, I might guess, but I am poor. I am compelled to work for my daily bread, and have been out of a place for two weeks."

"I don't understand," she said, in a low voice, rather to herself than to him. "But I cannot wait. I must not stand here. I will come up in fifteen minutes, and if you wish another cup of tea, or some toast, I will bring them."

His confinement did not affect his appetite, for he enjoyed his tea and toast; and when, as she had promised, the woman came up, he told her he would like another cup of tea, and some more toast.

"Will you answer one question?" asked our hero.

"I don't know," answered the woman in a flurried tone.

"You look like a good woman. Why do you stay in such a house as this?"

"I will tell you, though I should do better to be silent. But you won't betray me?"

"On no account."

"I was poor, starving, when I had an application to come here. The man who engaged me told me that it was to be a housekeeper, and I had no suspicion of the character of the house—that it was a den of—"

She stopped short, but Frank understood what she would have said.

"When I discovered the character of the house, I would have left but for two reasons. First, I had no other home; next, I had become acquainted with the secrets of the house, and they would have feared that I would reveal them. I should incur great risk. So I stayed."

Here there was a sound below. The woman started.

"Some one has come," she said. "I must go down I will come up as soon as I can with the rest of your supper."

"Thank you. You need not hurry."

Our hero was left to ponder over what he had heard. There was evidently a mystery connected with this lonely house a mystery which he very much desired to solve. But there was one chance. Through the aperture in the closet he might both see and hear something, provided any should meet there that evening.

The remainder of his supper was brought him by the same woman, but she was in haste, and he obtained no opportunity of exchanging another word with her.

Frank did not learn who it was that had arrived. Listening intently, he thought he heard some sounds in the next room. Opening the closet door, and applying his eye to the aperture, he saw two men seated in the room, one of whom was the man who had brought him there.

He applied his ear to the opening, and heard the following conversation:

"I hear you've brought a boy here, Nathan," said the other, who was a stout, low-browed man, with an evil look.

"Yes," said Graves, with a smile; "I am going to board him here a while."

"What's it all about? What are you going to gain by it?"

"I'll tell you all I know. I've known something of the family for a long time. John Wade employed me long ago. The old millionaire had a son who went abroad and died there. His cousin, John Wade, brought home his son—a mere baby—the old man's grandson, of course, and sole heir, or likely to be, to the old man's wealth, if he had lived. In that case, John Wade would have been left out in the cold, or put off with a small bequest."

"Yes. Did the boy live?"

"No; he died, very conveniently for John Wade, and thus removed the only obstacle from his path."

"Very convenient. Do you think there was any foul play?"

"There may have been."

"But I should think the old man would have suspected."

"He was away at the time. When he returned to the city, he heard from his nephew that the boy was dead. It was a great blow to him, of course. Now, I'll tell you what," said Graves, sinking his voice so that Frank found it difficult to hear, "I'll tell you what I've thought at times."

"I think the grandson may have been spirited off somewhere. Nothing more easy, you know. Murder is a risky operation, and John Wade is respectable, and wouldn't want to run the risk of a halter."

"You may be right. You don't connect this story of yours with the boy you've brought here, do you?"

"I do," answered Graves, emphatically. "I shouldn't be surprised if this was the very boy!"

"What makes you think so?"

"First, because there's some resemblance between the boy and the old man's son, as I remember him. Next, it would explain John Wade's anxiety to get rid of him. It's my belief that John Wade has recognized in this boy the baby he got rid of fourteen years ago, and is afraid his uncle will make the same discovery."

Frank left the crevice through which he had received so much information in a whirl of new and bewildering thoughts.

"Was it possible," he asked himself, "that he could be the grandson of Mr. Wharton, his kind benefactor?"



CHAPTER XX

THE ESCAPE

It was eight o'clock the next morning before Frank's breakfast was brought to him.

"I am sorry you have had to wait," the housekeeper said, as she appeared at the door with a cup of coffee and a plate of beefsteak and toast, "I couldn't come up before."

"Have the men gone away?" said Frank.

"Yes."

"Then I have something to tell you. I learned something about myself last night. I was in the closet, and heard the man who brought me here talking to another person. May I tell you the story?"

"If you think it will do any good," said the housekeeper, "but I can't help you if that is what you want."

He told the whole story. As he proceeded, the housekeeper betrayed increased, almost eager interest, and from time to time asked him questions in particular as to the personal appearance of John Wade. When Frank had described him as well as he could, she said, in an excited manner:

"Yes, it is—it must be the same man."

"The same man!" repeated our hero, in surprise.

"Do you know anything about him?"

"I know that he is a wicked man. I am afraid that I have helped him carry out his wicked plan, but I did not know it at the time, or I never would have given my consent."

"I don't understand you," said our hero, puzzled.

"Will you tell me what you mean?"

"Fourteen years ago I was very poor—poor and sick besides. My husband had died, leaving me nothing but the care of a young infant, whom it was necessary for me to support besides myself. Enfeebled by sickness, I was able to earn but little, but we lived in a wretched room in a crowded tenement house. My infant boy was taken sick and died. As I sat sorrowfully beside the bed on which he lay dead, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and admitted a man whom I afterward learned to be John Wade. He very soon explained his errand. He agreed to take my poor boy, and pay all the expenses of his burial in Greenwood Cemetery, provided I would not object to any of his arrangements. He was willing besides to pay me two hundred dollars for the relief of my necessities. Though I was almost beside myself with grief for my child's loss, and though this was a very favorable proposal, I hesitated. I could not understand why a stranger should make me such an offer. I asked him the reason."

"'You ask too much,' he answered, appearing annoyed. 'I have made you a fair offer. Will you accept it, or will you leave your child to have a pauper's funeral?'

"That consideration decided me. For my child's sake I agreed to his proposal, and forebore to question him further. He provided a handsome rosewood casket for my dear child, but upon the silver plate was inscribed a name that was strange to me—the name of Francis Wharton."

"Francis Wharton!" exclaimed Frank.

"I was too weak and sorrowful to make opposition, and my baby was buried as Francis Wharton. Not only this, but a monument is erected over him at Greenwood, which bears this name."

She proceeded after a pause:

"I did not then understand his object. Your story makes it clear. I think that you are that Francis Wharton, under whose name my boy was buried."

"How strange!" said Frank, thoughtfully. "I cannot realize it. But how did you know the name of the man who called upon you?"

"A card slipped from his pocket, which I secured without his knowledge."

"How fortunate that I met you," said Frank. "I mean to let Mr. Wharton know all that I have learned, and then he shall decide whether he will recognize me or not as his grandson."

"I have been the means of helping to deprive you of your just rights, though unconsciously. Now that I know the wicked conspiracy in which I assisted, I will help undo the work."

"Thank you," said Frank. "The first thing is to get out of this place."

"I cannot open the door of your room. They do not trust me with the key."

"The windows are not very high from the ground. I can get down from the outside."

"I will bring you a clothesline and a hatchet."

Frank received them with exultation.

"Before I attempt to escape," he said, "tell me where I can meet you in New York. I want you to go with me to Mr. Wharton's. I shall need you to confirm my story."

"I will meet you to-morrow at No. 15 B—Street."

"Then we shall meet to-morrow. What shall I call your name?"

"Mrs. Parker."

"Thank you. I will get away as quickly as possible, and when we are in the city we will talk over our future plans."

With the help of the hatchet, Frank soon demolished the lower part of the window. Fastening the rope to the bedstead, he got out of the window and safely descended to the ground.

A long and fatiguing walk lay before him. But at last he reached the cars, and half an hour later the ferry at Jersey City.

Frank thought himself out of danger for the time being, but he was mistaken.

Standing on the deck of the ferryboat, and looking back to the pier from which he had just started, he met the glance of a man who had intended to take the same boat, but had reached the pier just too late. His heart beat quicker when he recognized in the belated passenger his late jailer, Nathan Graves.

Carried away by his rage and disappointment, Nathan Graves clenched his fist and shook it at his receding victim.

Our hero walked into the cabin. He wanted a chance to deliberate. He knew that Nathan Graves would follow him by the next boat, and it was important that he should not find him. Where was he to go?

Fifteen minutes after Frank set foot on the pier, his enemy also landed. But now the difficult part of the pursuit began. He had absolutely no clew as to the direction which Frank had taken.

For an hour and a half he walked the streets in the immediate neighborhood of the square, but his labor was without reward. Not a glimpse could he catch of his late prisoner.

"I suppose I must go to see Mr. Wade," he at last reluctantly decided. "He may be angry, but he can't blame me. I did my best. I couldn't stand guard over the young rascal all day."

The address which the housekeeper had given Frank was that of a policeman's family in which she was at one time a boarder. On giving his reference, he was hospitably received, and succeeded in making arrangements for a temporary residence.

About seven o'clock Mrs. Parker made her appearance. She was fatigued by her journey and glad to rest.

"I was afraid you might be prevented from coming," said Frank.

"I feared it also. I was about to start at twelve o'clock, when, to my dismay, one of the men came home. He said he had the headache. I was obliged to make him some tea and toast. He remained about till four o'clock, when, to my relief, he went upstairs to lie down. I was afraid some inquiry might be made about you, and your absence discovered, especially as the rope was still hanging out of the window, and I was unable to do anything more than cut off the lower end of it. When the sick man retired to his bed I instantly left the house, fearing that the return of some other of the band might prevent my escaping altogether."

"Suppose you had met one of them, Mrs. Parker?"

"I did. It was about half a mile from the house."

"Did he recognize you?"

"Yes. He asked in some surprise where I was going. I was obliged to make up a story about our being out of sugar. He accepted it without suspicion, and I kept on. I hope I shall be forgiven for the lie. I was forced to it."

"You met no further trouble?"

"No."

"I must tell you of my adventure," said Frank.

"I came across the very man whom I most dreaded—the man who made me a prisoner."

"Since he knows that you have escaped, he is probably on your track," said Mrs. Parker. "It will be hardly safe for you to go to Mr. Wharton's."

"Why?"

"He will probably think you likely to go there, and be lying in wait somewhere about."

"But I must go to Mr. Wharton," said Frank. "I must tell him this story."

"It will be safer to write."

"The housekeeper, Mrs. Bradley, or John Wade, will get hold of the letter and suppress it. I don't want to put them on their guard."

"You are right. It is necessary to be cautious."

"You see I am obliged to call on my grandfather, that is, on Mr. Wharton."

"I can think of a better plan."

"What is it?"

"Go to a respectable lawyer. Tell him your story, and place your case in his hands. He will write to your grandfather, inviting him to call at his office on business of importance, without letting him know what is the nature of it. You and I can be there to meet him, and tell our story. In this way John Wade will know nothing, and learn nothing, of your movements."

"That is good advice, Mrs. Parker, but there is one thing you have not thought of," said our hero.

"What is that?"

"Lawyers charge a great deal for their services, and I have no money."

"You have what is as good a recommendation—a good case. The lawyer will see at once that if not at present rich, you stand a good chance of obtaining a position which will make you so. Besides, your grandfather will be willing, if he admits your claim, to recompense the lawyer handsomely."

"I did not think of that. I will do as you advise to-morrow."



CHAPTER XXI

JOHN WADE'S DISAPPOINTMENT

Mr. Wharton sat at dinner with his nephew and the housekeeper. He had been at home for some time, and of course on his arrival had been greeted with the news of our hero's perfidy. But, to the indignation of Mrs. Bradley and John, he was obstinately incredulous.

"There is some mistake, I am sure," he said. "Such a boy as Frank is incapable of stealing. You may be mistaken after all, John. Why did you not let him stay till I got back? I should like to have examined him myself."

"I was so angry with him for repaying your kindness in such a way that I instantly ordered him out of the house."

"I blame you, John, for your haste," said his uncle. "It was not just to the boy."

"I acted for the best, sir," he forced himself to say in a subdued tone.

"Young people are apt to be impetuous, and I excuse you; but you should have waited for my return. I will call at Gilbert & Mack's, and inquire of Frank himself what explanation he has to give."

"Of course, sir, you will do what you think proper," said his nephew.

This ended the conversation, and Mr. Wharton, according to his declared intention, went to Gilbert & Mack's. He returned disappointed with the information that our hero was no longer in the store.

I now return to Mr. Wharton at dinner.

"Here is a letter for you, sir," said the housekeeper. "It was brought by the postman this afternoon."

Mr. Wharton adjusted his spectacles and read as follows:

"No.— Wall Street.

"Dear Sir: Will you have the kindness to call at my office to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, if it suits your convenience? I have an important communication to make to you, which will, I think be of an agreeable character. Should the time named not suit you, will you have the kindness to name your own time?

"Yours respectfully,

"MORRIS HALL."

"Read that, John," said his uncle, passing him the letter.

"Morris Hall is a lawyer, I believe, sir," said John.

"Have you any idea of the nature of the communication he desires to make?"

"No idea at all."

"If it would relieve you, sir, I will go in your place," said John, whose curiosity was aroused.

"Thank you, John, but this is evidently a personal matter. I shall go down there to-morrow at the appointed time."

John was far from suspecting that the communication related to Frank, though he had heard the day previous from Nathan Graves of the boy's escape. He had been very much annoyed, and had given his agent a severe scolding, with imperative orders to recapture the boy, if possible.

It was not without a feeling of curiosity that Mr. Wharton entered the law office of Mr. Hall. He announced himself and was cordially welcomed.

"You have a communication to make to me," said Mr. Wharton.

"I have."

"Tell me all without delay."

"I will, sir. This is the communication I desire to make."

The story of John Wade's treachery was told, and the means by which he had imposed upon his uncle, but the lawyer carefully abstained from identifying the lost grandson with Frank Fowler.

When the story was concluded, Mr. Wharton said:

"Where is my grandson—my poor George's boy? Find him for me, and name your own reward."

"I will show him to you at once, sir. Frank!"

At the word, Frank, who was in an inner office, entered. Mr. Wharton started in amazement.

"Frank!" he exclaimed. "My dear boy, is it you who are my grandson?"

"Grandfather!"

Mr. Wharton held out his arms, and our hero, already attached to him for his kindness, was folded in close embrace.

"Then you believe I am your grandson?" said Frank.

"I believe it without further proof."

"Still, Mr. Wharton," said the lawyer, "I want to submit my whole proof. Mrs. Parker!"

Mrs. Parker entered and detailed her part in the plot, which for fourteen years had separated Frank from his family.

"Enough!" said Mr. Wharton. "I am convinced—I did not believe my nephew capable of such baseness. Mrs. Parker, you shall not regret your confession. I will give you a pension which will relieve you from all fear of want. Call next week on Mr. Hall, and you shall learn what provision I have made for you. You, Frank, will return with me."

"What will Mr. John say?" asked Frank.

"He shall no longer sleep under my roof," said Mr. Wharton, sternly.

Frank was taken to a tailor and fitted out with a handsome new suit, ready-made for immediate use, while three more were ordered.

When Mr. Wharton reached home, he entered the library and rang the bell.

To the servant who answered he said:

"Is Mr. John at home?"

"Yes, sir; he came in ten minutes ago."

"Tell him I wish to see him at once in the library. Summon the housekeeper, also."

Surprised at the summons, John Wade answered it directly. He and Mrs. Bradley met at the door and entered together. Their surprise and dismay may be conjectured when they saw our hero seated beside Mr. Wharton, dressed like a young gentleman.

"John Wade," said his uncle, sternly, "the boy whom you malign, the boy you have so deeply wronged, has found a permanent home in this house."

"What, sir! you take him back?"

"I do. There is no more fitting place for him than the house of his grandfather."

"His grandfather!" exclaimed his nephew and the housekeeper, in chorus.

"I have abundant proof of the relationship. This morning I have listened to the story of your treachery. I have seen the woman whose son, represented to me as my grandson, lies in Greenwood Cemetery. I have learned your wicked plans to defraud him of his inheritance, and I tell you that you have failed."

"I shall make my will to-morrow, bequeathing all my property to my grandson, excepting only an annual income of two thousand dollars to yourself. And now I must trouble you to find a boarding place. After what has passed I do not desire to have you in the family."

"I do not believe he is your grandson," said John Wade, too angry to heed prudential considerations.

"Your opinion is of little consequence."

"Then, sir, I have only to wish you good-morning. I will send for my trunks during the day."

"Good-morning," said Mr. Wharton, gravely, and John Wade left the room, baffled and humiliated.

"I hope, sir," said the housekeeper, alarmed for her position; "I hope you don't think I knew Mr. Frank was your grandson. I never was so astonished and flustrated in my life. I hope you won't discharge me, sir—me that have served you so faithfully for many years."

"You shall remain on probation. But if Frank ever has any fault to find with you, you must go."

"I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Frank."

"I forgive you freely," said our hero, who was at a generous disposition.



CHAPTER XXII

CONCLUSION

Meanwhile poor Grace had fared badly at the poorhouse in Crawford. It was a sad contrast to the gentle and kindly circle at Mr. Pomeroy's. What made it worse for Grace was, that she could hear nothing of Frank. She feared he was sick, or had met with some great misfortune, which prevented his writing.

One day a handsome carriage drove up to the door. From it descended our hero, elegantly attired. He knocked at the door.

Mrs. Chase, who was impressed by wealth, came to the door in a flutter of respect, induced by the handsome carriage.

"What do you wish, sir?" she asked, not recognizing Frank.

"Miss Grace Fowler!" repeated Mrs. Chase, almost paralyzed at Grace being called for by such stylish acquaintances.

"Yes, my sister Grace."

"What! are you Frank Fowler?"

"Yes. I have come to take Grace away."

"I don't know as I have the right to let her go," said Mrs. Chase, cautiously, regretting that Grace was likely to escape her clutches.

"Here is an order from Deacon Pinkerton, chairman of the overseers of the poor."

"That is sufficient. She can go. You look as if you had prospered in the city," she added, with curiosity.

"Yes. I have found my grandfather, who is very wealthy."

"You don't say!" ejaculated Mrs. Chase. "I'll tell Grace at once."

Grace at work in the kitchen had not heard of the arrival. What was her surprise when Mrs. Chase, entering the room, said, graciously:

"Go up at once, Grace, and change your clothes. Your brother has come for you. He is going to take you away."

Grace almost gasped for breath.

"Is it true?"

"It is indeed. Your brother looks remarkably well. He is rich. He has found a rich grandfather, and has come for you in a carriage."

In amazed bewilderment Grace went upstairs and put on her best dress, poor enough in comparison with her brother's clothes, and was soon happy in his embrace.

"I am glad to see you, my dear child," said Mr. Wharton, who had accompanied Frank. "Will you come to the city and live with me and your brother?"

"Oh, sir, I shall be glad to be wherever Frank is."

"Good-bye, my dear child," sand Mrs. Chase, whose feelings were very much changed, now that Grace was a rich young lady. "Come and see me some time."

"Thank you, Mrs. Chase. Good-bye!"

The carriage rolled on.

* * * * *

A few words only remain. Our hero was placed at a classical school, and in due time entered college, where he acquitted himself with distinction. He is now making a tour of Europe. Grace was also placed at an excellent school, and has developed into a handsome and accomplished young lady. It is thought she will marry Sam Pomeroy, who obtained a place in a counting-room through Mr. Wharton's influence, and is now head clerk, with a prospect of partnership. His father received a gift of five thousand dollars from Mr. Wharton as an acknowledgment of his kindness to Frank. Tom Pinkerton holds a subordinate clerkship in the same house, and is obliged to look up to Sam as his superior. It chafes his pride, but his father has become a poor man, and Tom is too prudent to run the risk of losing his situation. John Wade draws his income regularly, but he is never seen at his uncle's house.

Mr. Wharton is very happy in his grandson, and made happier by the intelligence just received from Europe of Frank's engagement to a brilliant young New York lady whom he met in his travels. He bids fair, though advanced in age, to live some years yet, to witness the happiness of his dear grandson, once a humble cash-boy.

THE END