Upon his return to the city, John Armstrong lost no time in sending for Roland Reed. The latter, though rather surprised at the summons, answered it promptly. When he entered the office of the old merchant he found him sitting at his desk.
"Mr. Armstrong?" he said inquiringly.
"That's my name. You, I take it, are Roland Reed."
"Yes."
"No doubt you wonder why I sent for you," said Mr. Armstrong.
"Is it about the robbery of the Groveton Bank?"
"You have guessed it. You know, I suppose, that I am the owner of the missing box of bonds?"
"So I was told. Have you obtained any clue?"
"I have not had time. I have only just returned from Europe. I have done nothing except visit Groveton."
"What led you to send for me? Pardon my curiosity, but I can't help asking."
"An interview with a protege of yours, Luke Larkin."
"You know that Luke was arrested on suspicion of being connected with the robbery, though there are those who pay me the compliment of thinking that I may have had something to do with it."
"I think you had as much to do with it as Luke Larkin," said Armstrong, deliberately.
"I had—just as much," said Reed, with a smile. "Luke is a good boy, Mr. Armstrong."
"I quite agree with you. If I had a son I should like him to resemble Luke."
"Give me your hand on that, Mr. Armstrong," said Roland Reed, impulsively. "Excuse my impetuosity, but I've taken a fancy to that boy."
"There, then, we are agreed. Now, Mr. Reed, I will tell you why I have taken the liberty of sending for you. From what Luke said, I judged that you were a sharp, shrewd man of the world, and might help me in this matter, which I confess puzzles me. You know the particulars, and therefore, without preamble, I am going to ask you whether you have any theory as regards this robbery. The box hasn't walked off without help. Now, who took it from the bank?"
"If I should tell you my suspicion you might laugh at me."
"I will promise not to do that."
"Then I believe that Prince Duncan, president of the Groveton Bank, could tell you, if he chose, what has become of the box."
"Extraordinary!" ejaculated John Armstrong.
"I supposed you would be surprised—probably indignant, if you are a friend of Duncan—but, nevertheless, I adhere to my statement."
"You mistake the meaning of my exclamation. I spoke of it as extraordinary, because the same suspicion has entered my mind, though, I admit, without a special reason."
"I have a reason."
"May I inquire what it is?"
"I knew Prince Duncan when he was a young man, though he does not know me now. In fact, I may as well admit that I was then known by another name. He wronged me deeply at that time, being guilty of a crime which he successfully laid upon my shoulders. No one in Groveton—no one of his recent associates—knows the real nature of the man as well as I do."
"You prefer not to go into particulars?"
"Not at present."
"At all events you can give me your advice. To suspect amounts to little. We must bring home the crime to him. It is here that I need your advice."
"I understand that the box contained government bonds."
"Yes."
"What were the denominations?"
"One ten thousand dollar bond, one five, and ten of one thousand each."
"It seems to me they ought to be traced. I suppose, of course, they were coupon, not registered."
"You are right. Had they been registered, I should have been at no trouble, nor would the thief have reaped any advantage."
"If coupon, they are, of course, numbered. Won't that serve as a clue, supposing an attempt is made to dispose of them?"
"You touch the weak point of my position. They are numbered, and I had a list of the numbers, but that list has disappeared. It is either lost or mislaid. Of course, I can't identify them."
"That is awkward. Wouldn't the banker of whom you bought them be able to give you the numbers?"
"Yes, but I don't know where they were bought. I had at the time in my employ a clerk and book-keeper, a steady-going and methodical man of fifty-odd, who made the purchase, and no doubt has a list of the numbers of the bonds."
"Then where is your difficulty?" asked Roland Reed, in surprise. "Go to the clerk and put the question. What can be simpler?"
"But I don't know where he is."
"Don't know where he is?" echoed Reed, in genuine surprise.
"No; James Harding—this is his name—left my employ a year since, having, through a life of economy, secured a competence, and went out West to join a widowed sister who had for many years made her residence there. Now, the West is a large place, and I don't know where this sister lives, or where James Harding is to be found."
"Yet he must be found. You must send a messenger to look for him."
"But whom shall I send? In a matter of this delicacy I don't want to employ a professional detective. Those men sometimes betray secrets committed to their keeping, and work up a false clue rather than have it supposed they are not earning their money. If, now, some gentleman in whom I had confidence—someone like yourself—would undertake the commission, I should esteem myself fortunate."
"Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Armstrong, more especially as you are putting confidence in a stranger, but I have important work to do that would not permit me to leave New York at present. But I know of someone whom I would employ, if the business were mine."
"Well?"
"Luke Larkin."
"But he is only a boy. He can't be over sixteen."
"He is a sharp boy, however, and would follow instructions."
John Armstrong thought rapidly. He was a man who decided quickly.
"I will take your advice," he said. "As I don't want to have it supposed that he is in my employ, will you oblige me by writing to him and preparing him for a journey? Let it be supposed that he is occupied with a commission for you."
"I will attend to the matter at once."
The next morning Luke received the following letter:
"MY DEAR LUKE: I have some work for you which will occupy some time and require a journey. You will be well paid. Bring a supply of underclothing, and assure your mother that she need feel under no apprehensions about you. Unless I am greatly mistaken, you will be able to take care of yourself.
"Your friend,
Luke read the letter with excitement and pleasure. He was to go on a journey, and to a boy of his age a journey of any sort is delightful. He had no idea of the extent of the trip in store for him, but thought he might possibly be sent to Boston, or Philadelphia, and either trip he felt would yield him much pleasure. He quieted the natural apprehensions of his mother, and, satchel in hand, waited upon his patron in the course of a day. By him he was taken over to the office of Mr. Armstrong, from whom he received instructions and a supply of money.
Luke didn't shrink from the long trip before him. He enjoyed the prospect of it, having always longed to travel and see distant places. He felt flattered by Mr. Armstrong's confidence in him, and stoutly resolved to deserve it. He would have been glad if he could have had the company of his friend Linton, but he knew that this was impossible. He must travel alone.
"You have a difficult and perplexing task, Luke," said the capitalist. "You may not succeed."
"I will do my best, Mr. Armstrong."
"That is all I have a right to expect. If you succeed, you will do me a great service, of which I shall show proper appreciation."
He gave Luke some instructions, and it was arranged that our hero should write twice a week, and, if occasion required, oftener, so that his employer might be kept apprised of his movements.
Luke was not to stop short of Chicago. There his search was to begin; and there, if possible, he was to obtain information that might guide his subsequent steps.
It is a long ride to Chicago, as Luke found. He spent a part of the time in reading, and a part in looking out of the window at the scenery, but still, at times, he felt lonely.
"I wish Linton Tomkins were with me," he reflected. "What a jolly time we would have!"
But Linton didn't even know what had become of his friend. Luke's absence was an occasion for wonder at Groveton, and many questions were asked of his mother.
"He was sent for by Mr. Reed," answered the widow. "He is at work for him."
"Mr. Reed is in New York, isn't he?"
"Yes."
It was concluded, therefore, that Luke was in New York, and one or two persons proposed to call upon him there, but his mother professed ignorance of his exact residence. She knew that he was traveling, but even she was kept in the dark as to where he was, nor did she know that Mr. Armstrong, and not Mr. Reed, was his employer.
Some half dozen hours before reaching Chicago, a young man of twenty-five, or thereabouts, sauntered along the aisle, and sat down in the vacant seat beside Luke.
"Nice day," he said, affably.
"Very nice," responded Luke.
"I suppose you are bound to Chicago?"
"Yes, I expect to stay there awhile."
"Going farther?"
"I can't tell yet."
"Going to school out there?"
"No."
"Perhaps you are traveling for some business firm, though you look pretty young for that."
"No, I'm not a drummer, if that's what you mean. Still, I have a commisison from a New York business man."
"A commission—of what kind?" drawled the newcomer.
"It is of a confidential character," said Luke.
"Ha! close-mouthed," thought the young man. "Well, I'll get it out of him after awhile."
He didn't press the question, not wishing to arouse suspicion or mistrust.
"Just so," he replied. "You are right to keep it to yourself, though you wouldn't mind trusting me if you knew me better. Is this your first visit to Chicago?"
"Yes, sir."
"Suppose we exchange cards. This is mine."
He handed Luke a card, bearing this name.
At the bottom of the card he wrote in pencil, "representing H. B. Claflin & Co."
"Of course you've heard of our firm," he said.
"Certainly."
"I don't have the firm name printed on my card, for Claflin won't allow it. You will notice that I am called for old President Madison. He was an old friend of my grandfather. In fact, grandfather held a prominent office under his administration— collector of the port of New York."
"I have no card with me," responded Luke. "But my name is Luke Larkin."
"Good name. Do you live in New York?"
"No; a few miles in the country."
"And whom do you represent?"
"Myself for the most part," answered Luke, with a smile.
"Good! No one has a better right to. I see there's something in you, Luke."
"You've found it out pretty quick," thought Luke.
"And I hope we will get better acquainted. If you're not permanently employed by this party, whose name you don't give, I will get you into the employ of Claflin & Co., if you would like it."
"Thank you," answered Luke, who thought it quite possible that he might like to obtain a position with so eminent a firm. "How long have you been with them?"
"Ten years—ever since I was of your age," promptly answered Mr. Coleman.
"Is promotion rapid?" Luke asked, with interest.
"Well, that depends on a man's capacity. I have been pushed right along. I went there as a boy, on four dollars a week; now I'm a traveling salesman—drummer as it is called—and I make about four thousand a year."
"That's a fine salary," said Luke, feeling that his new acquaintance must be possessed of extra ability to occupy so desirable a position.
"Yes, but I expect next year to get five thousand—Claflin knows I am worth it, and as he is a liberal man, I guess he will give it sooner than let me go."
"I suppose many do not get on so well, Mr. Coleman."
"I should say so! Now, there is a young fellow went there the same time that I did—his name is Frank Bolton. We were schoolfellows together, and just the same age, that is, nearly—he was born in April, and I in May. Well, we began at the same time on the same salary. Now I get sixty dollars a week and he only twelve—and he is glad to get that, too."
"I suppose he hasn't much business capacity."
"That's where you've struck it, Luke. He knows about enough to be clerk in a country store—and I suppose he'll fetch up there some day. You know what that means—selling sugar, and tea, and dried apples to old ladies, and occasionally measuring off a yard of calico, or selling a spool of cotton. If I couldn't do better than that I'd hire out as a farm laborer."
Luke smiled at the enumeration of the duties of a country salesman. It was clear that Mr. Coleman, though he looked city-bred, must at some time in the past have lived in the country.
"Perhaps that is the way I should turn out," he said. "I might not rise any higher than your friend Mr. Bolton."
"Oh, yes, you would. You're smart enough, I'll guarantee. You might not get on so fast as I have, for it isn't every young man of twenty-six that can command four thousand dollars a year, but you would rise to a handsome income, I am sure."
"I should be satisfied with two thousand a year at your age."
"I would be willing to guarantee you that," asserted Mr. Coleman, confidently. "By the way, where do you propose to put up in Chicago?"
"I have not decided yet."
"You'd better go with me to the Ottawa House."
"Is it a good house?"
"They'll feed you well there, and only charge two dollars a day"
"Is it centrally located?"
"It isn't as central as the Palmer, or Sherman, or Tremont, but it is convenient to everything."
I ought to say here that I have chosen to give a fictitious name to the hotel designated by Mr. Coleman.
"Come, what do you say?"
"I have no objection," answered Luke, after a slight pause for reflection.
Indeed, it was rather pleasant to him to think that he would have a companion on his first visit to Chicago who was well acquainted with the city, and could serve as his guide. Though he should not feel justified in imparting to Mr. Coleman his special business, he meant to see something of the city, and would find his new friend a pleasant companion.
"That's good," said Coleman, well pleased. "I shall be glad to have your company. I expected to meet a friend on the train, but something must have delayed him, and so I should have been left alone."
"I suppose a part of your time will be given to business?" suggested Luke.
"Yes, but I take things easy; when I work, I work. I can accomplish as much in a couple of hours as many would do in a whole day. You see, I understand my customers. When soft sawder is wanted, I am soft sawder. When I am dealing with a plain, businesslike man, I talk in a plain, businesslike way. I study my man, and generally I succeed in striking him for an order, even if times are hard and he is already well stocked."
"He certainly knows how to talk," thought Luke. In fact, he was rather disposed to accept Mr. Coleman at his own valuation, though that was a very high one.
"Do you smoke?"
"Not at all."
"Not even a cigarette?"
"Not even a cigarette."
"I was intending to ask you to go with me into the smoking-car for a short time. I smoke a good deal; it is my only vice. You know we must all have some vices."
Luke didn't see the necessity, but he assented, because it seemed to be expected.
"I won't be gone long. You'd better come along, too, and smoke a cigarette. It is time you began to smoke. Most boys begin much earlier."
Luke shook his head.
"I don't care to learn," he said.
"Oh, you're a good boy—one of the Sunday-school kind," said Coleman, with a slight sneer. "You'll get over that after a while. You'll be here when I come back?"
Luke promised that he would, and for the next half hour he was left alone. As his friend Mr. Coleman left the car, he followed him with his glance, and surveyed him more attentively than he had hitherto done. The commercial traveler was attired in a suit of fashionable plaid, wore a showy necktie, from the center of which blazed a diamond scarfpin. A showy chain crossed his vest, and to it was appended a large and showy watch, which looked valuable, though appearances are sometimes deceitful.
"He must spend a good deal of money," thought Luke. "I wonder that he should be willing to go to a two-dollar-a-day hotel."
Luke, for his own part, was quite willing to go to the Ottawa House. He had never fared luxuriously, and he had no doubt that even at the Ottawa House he should live better than at home.
It was nearer an hour than half an hour before Coleman came back.
"I stayed away longer than I intended," he said. "I smoked three cigars, instead of one, seeing you wasn't with me to keep me company. I found some social fellows, and we had a chat."
Mr. Coleman absented himself once or twice more. Finally, the train ran into the depot, and the conductor called out, "Chicago!"
"Come along, Luke!" said Coleman.
The two left the car in company. Coleman hailed a cab—gave the order, Ottawa House—and in less than five minutes they were rattling over the pavements toward their hotel.
There was one little circumstance that led Luke to think favorably of his new companion. As the hackman closed the door of the carriage, Luke asked: "How much is the fare?"
"Fifty cents apiece, gentlemen," answered cabby.
Luke was about to put his hand into his pocket for the money, when Coleman touching him on the arm, said: "Never mind, Luke, I have the money," and before our hero could expostulate he had thrust a dollar into the cab-driver's hand.
"All right, thanks," said the driver, and slammed to the door.
"You must let me repay you my part of the fare, Mr. Coleman," said Luke, again feeling for his pocketbook.
"Oh, it's a mere trifle!" said Coleman. "I'll let you pay next time, but don't be so ceremonious with a friend."
"But I would rather pay for myself," objected Luke.
"Oh, say no more about it, I beg. Claflin provides liberally for my expenses. It's all right."
"But I don't want Claflin to pay for me."
"Then I assure you I'll get it out of you before we part. Will that content you?"
Luke let the matter drop, but he didn't altogether like to find himself under obligations to a stranger, notwithstanding his assurance, which he took for a joke. He would have been surprised and startled if he had known how thoroughly Coleman meant what he said about getting even. The fifty cents he had with such apparent generosity paid out for Luke he meant to get back a hundred-fold. His object was to gain Luke's entire confidence, and remove any suspicion he might possibly entertain. In this respect he was successful. Luke had read about designing strangers, but he certainly could not suspect a man who insisted on paying his hack fare.
"I hope you will not be disappointed in the Ottawa House," observed Mr. Coleman, as they rattled through the paved streets. "It isn't a stylish hotel."
"I am not used to stylish living," said Luke, frankly. "I have always been used to living in a very plain way."
"When I first went on the road I used to stop at the tip-top houses, such as the Palmer at Chicago, the Russell House in Detroit, etc., but it's useless extravagance. Claflin allows me a generous sum for hotels, and if I go to a cheap one, I put the difference into my own pocket."
"Is that expected?" asked Luke, doubtfully.
"It's allowed, at any rate. No one can complain if I choose to live a little plainer. When it pays in the way of business to stop at a big hotel, I do so. Of course, your boss pays your expenses?"
"Yes."
"Then you'd better do as I do—put the difference in your own pocket."
"I shouldn't like to do that."
"Why not? It is evident you are a new traveler, or you would know that it is a regular thing."
Luke did not answer, but he adhered to his own view. He meant to keep a careful account of his disbursements and report to Mr. Armstrong, without the addition of a single penny. He had no doubt that he should be paid liberally for his time, and he didn't care to make anything by extra means.
The Ottawa House was nearly a mile and a half distant. It was on one of the lower streets, near the lake. It was a plain building with accommodations for perhaps a hundred and fifty guests. This would be large for a country town or small city, but it indicated a hotel of the third class in Chicago. I may as well say here, however, that it was a perfectly respectable and honestly conducted hotel, notwithstanding it was selected by Mr. Coleman, who could not with truth be complimented so highly. I will also add that Mr. Coleman's selection of the Ottawa, in place of a more pretentious hotel, arose from the fear that in the latter he might meet someone who knew him, and who would warn Luke of his undesirable reputation.
Jumping out of the hack, J. Madison Coleman led the way into the hotel, and, taking pen in hand, recorded his name in large, flourishing letters—as from New York.
Then he handed the pen to Luke, who registered himself also from New York.
"Give us a room together," he said to the clerk.
Luke did not altogether like this arrangement, but hardly felt like objecting. He did not wish to hurt the feelings of J. Madison Coleman, yet he considered that, having known him only six hours, it was somewhat imprudent to allow such intimacy. But he who hesitates is lost, and before Luke had made up his mind whether to object or not, he was already part way upstairs—there was no elevator—following the bellboy, who carried his luggage.
The room, which was on the fourth floor, was of good size, and contained two beds. So far so good. After the ride he wished to wash and put on clean clothes. Mr. Coleman did not think this necessary, and saying to Luke that he would find him downstairs, he left our hero alone.
"I wish I had a room alone," thought Luke. "I should like it much better, but I don't want to offend Coleman. I've got eighty dollars in my pocketbook, and though, of course, he is all right, I don't want to take any risks."
On the door he read the regulations of the hotel. One item attracted his attention. It was this:
"The proprietors wish distinctly to state that they will not be responsible for money or valuables unless left with the clerk to be deposited in the safe."
Luke had not been accustomed to stopping at hotels, and did not know that this was the usual custom. It struck him, however, as an excellent arrangement, and he resolved to avail himself of it.
When he went downstairs he didn't see Mr. Coleman.
"Your friend has gone out," said the clerk. "He wished me to say that he would be back in half an hour."
"All right," answered Luke. "Can I leave my pocketbook with you?"
"Certainly."
The clerk wrapped it up in a piece of brown paper and put it away in the safe at the rear of the office, marking it with Luke's name and the number of his room.
"There, that's safe!" thought Luke, with a feeling of relief. He had reserved about three dollars, as he might have occasion to spend a little money in the course of the evening. If he were robbed of this small amount it would not much matter.
A newsboy came in with an evening paper. Luke bought a copy and sat down on a bench in the office, near a window. He was reading busily, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw that it was his roommate, J. Madison Coleman.
"I've just been taking a little walk," he said, "and now I am ready for dinner. If you are, too, let us go into the dining-room."
Luke was glad to accept this proposal, his long journey having given him a good appetite.
After dinner, Coleman suggested a game of billiards, but as this was a game with which Luke was not familiar, he declined the invitation, but went into the billiard-room and watched a game between his new acquaintance and a stranger. Coleman proved to be a very good player, and won the game. After the first game Coleman called for drinks, and invited Luke to join them.
"Thank you," answered Luke, "but I never drink."
"Oh, I forgot; you're a good boy," said Coleman. "Well, I'm no Puritan. Whisky straight for me."
Luke was not in the least troubled by the sneer conveyed in Coleman's words. He was not altogether entitled to credit for refusing to drink, having not the slightest taste for strong drink of any kind.
About half-past seven Coleman put up his cue, saying: "That'll do for me. Now, Luke, suppose we take a walk."
Luke was quite ready, not having seen anything of Chicago as yet. They strolled out, and walked for an hour. Coleman, to do him justice, proved an excellent guide, and pointed out whatever they passed which was likely to interest his young companion. But at last he seemed to be tired.
"It's only half-past eight," he said, referring to his watch. "I'll drop into some theater. It is the best way to finish up the evening."
"Then I'll go back to the hotel," said Luke. "I feel tired, and mean to go to bed early."
"You'd better spend an hour or two in the theater with me."
"No, I believe not. I prefer a good night's rest."
"Do you mind my leaving you?"
"Not at all."
"Can you find your way back to the hotel alone?"
"If you'll direct me, I think I can find it."
The direction was given, and Coleman was turning off, when, as if it had just occurred to him, he said: "By the way, can you lend me a five? I've nothing less than a fifty-dollar bill with me, and I don't want to break that."
Luke congratulated himself now that he had left the greater part of his money at the hotel.
"I can let you have a dollar," he said.
Coleman shrugged his shoulders, but answered: "All right; let me have the one."
Luke did so, and felt now that he had more than repaid the fifty cents his companion had paid for hack fare. Though Coleman had professed to have nothing less than fifty, Luke knew that he had changed a five-dollar bill at the hotel in paying for the drinks, and must have over four dollars with him in small bills and change.
"Why, then," thought he, "did Coleman want to borrow five dollars of me?"
If Luke had known more of the world he would have understood that it was only one of the tricks to which men like Coleman resort to obtain a loan, or rather a gift, from an unsuspecting acquaintance.
"I suppose I shall not see my money back," thought Luke. "Well, it will be the last that he will get out of me."
He was already becoming tired of his companion, and doubted whether he would not find the acquaintance an expensive one. He was sorry that they were to share the same room. However, it was for one night only, and to-morrow he was quite resolved to part company.
Shortly after nine o'clock Luke went to bed, and being fatigued with his long journey, was soon asleep. He was still sleeping at twelve o'clock, when Coleman came home.
Coleman came up to his bed and watched him attentively.
"The kid's asleep," he soliloquized. "He's one of the good Sunday-school boys. I can imagine how shocked he would be if he knew that, instead of being a traveler for H. B. Claflin, I have been living by my wits for the last half-dozen years. He seems to be half asleep. I think I can venture to explore a little."
He took Luke's trousers from the chair on which he had laid them, and thrust his fingers into the pockets, but brought forth only a penknife and a few pennies.
"He keeps his money somewhere else, it seems," said Coleman.
Next he turned to the vest, and from the inside vest pocket drew out Luke's modest pocketbook.
"Oh, here we have it," thought Coleman, with a smile. "Cunning boy; he thought nobody would think of looking in his vest pocket. Well, let us see how much he has got."
He opened the pocketbook, and frowned with disappointment when he discovered only a two-dollar bill.
"What does it mean? Surely he hasn't come to Chicago with only this paltry sum!" exclaimed Coleman. "He must be more cunning than I thought."
He looked in the coat pockets, the shoes, and even the socks of his young companion, but found nothing, except the silver watch, which Luke had left in one of his vest pockets.
"Confound the boy! He's foiled me this time!" muttered Coleman. "Shall I take the watch? No; it might expose me, and I could not raise much on it at the pawnbroker's. He must have left his money with the clerk downstairs. He wouldn't think of it himself, but probably he was advised to do so before he left home. I'll get up early, and see if I can't get in ahead of my young friend."
Coleman did not venture to take the two-dollar bill, as that would have induced suspicion on the part of Luke, and would have interfered with his intention of securing the much larger sum of money, which, as he concluded rightly, was in the safe in the office.
He undressed and got into bed, but not without observation. As he was bending over Luke's clothes, examining them, our hero's eyes suddenly opened, and he saw what was going on. It flashed upon him at once what kind of a companion he had fallen in with, but he had the wisdom and self-control to close his eyes again immediately. He reflected that there was not much that Coleman could take, and if he took the watch he resolved to charge him openly with it. To make a disturbance there and then might be dangerous, as Coleman, who was much stronger than he, might ill-treat and abuse him, without his being able to offer any effectual resistance.