CHAPTER XVII.

"Mr. Pryor, will you require my services this afternoon?"

The speaker was Neil Lowell, who stood in the presence of his employer, hat in hand.

The old gentleman glanced up in surprise.

"No! That is the first time you have ever asked that. Are you going out?"

"With your permission."

"Hang it, boy, a servant has some time off, and you never take any. It would really do me good to have you go out more. You never do unless I send you. Go, and come back when you get ready."

"Thank you!"

Lowell did not wait for further words, but left the room, and instead of going directly to the street, as his dress would have indicated that he intended, he went to his room again.

He locked the door and hurriedly disrobed. Ten minutes later, a red-brown wig was drawn over his cropped head, and a suit that indicated shabby gentility had taken its place. An old and much-worn hat was placed upon his head, completing a most excellent disguise.

"If Mr. Pryor, or any one in the house discovers me, I shall tell him quietly that I am engaged upon a piece of detective work, and he will be perfectly satisfied and ask no further questions, bless his dear old heart; but I must prevent detection if I can," muttered the boy to himself as he left the room, and, taking the servants' stairway, went down and very quietly let himself into the street.

He took the elevated train and rode down-town, leaving it at the Bleecker Street Station, then walked quickly across town.

The place that he entered was one that would have made a man's heart stand still, much less that of a person built upon his small scale, and for a single moment he hesitated, but the hesitation was scarcely long enough to be called one.

It was a low saloon, and one in the "ring" could easily have recognized more than one member of the Whyo gang in that motley assemblage.

Blurred eyes were lifted questioningly, and the boy was "taken in" from head to foot.

Disregarding all this, and affecting a boldness he was far from feeling, he advanced to the man behind the bar and said, in a low tone:

"Say, pard, I've been told that you kin tell a feller where to find Ben Mauprat. Ef yer kin, yer'll do a good day's work fur Ben!"

"Say, Ike!" the barkeeper called to a man across the room, "this here kid wants to know where Ben Mauprat lives. Kin you tell him?"

"Cert! he lives on Great Jones Street--Number ----. He is sweller than we are. Shouldn't wonder but what he'd be one of the four hundred before the month's up."

The boy did not wait to hear the conclusion of the speech, but, muttering some words of thanks that "Ike" did not condescend to notice, he left the saloon.

He walked rapidly in the direction of Great Jones Street.

The number that had been indicated was not a desirable-looking residence, but no doubt to the other men of his class, Ben Mauprat's home was eminently respectable, if not elegant.

At least it required a pull at the bell to effect an entrance.

A slatternly woman answered the summons.

"Ben in?" questioned the boy.

"What do you want of him?"

"I want to see him. What do you suppose?"

"Well, he is asleep."

"Wake him up; my business can't wait!"

The boy's manner was an excellent imitation of the tough, and, half afraid to refuse, the woman reluctantly pulled open the door and allowed him to enter.

"He's in there," she said, indicating a room. "You can wake him yourself, for his temper ain't none too good at the best of times."

She went back to her work, and noiselessly Neil Lowell entered the room that she had pointed out to him.

There, upon an old hair-cloth lounge, lay the man whom he heard talking to Evelyn Chandler on that memorable night.

Ben Mauprat did not move.

The same heavy snores that had greeted Neil upon his entrance continued, perhaps a trifle louder, and feeling that he was secure from interruption from the woman who had admitted him, Neil began a hasty survey of the premises.

There was not much to see.

A broken chair, a table, with pieces of wood propping up one leg, an old secretary, with one door wrenched off, a dilapidated inkstand, and that seemed to be about all.

Lightly Neil stepped to the secretary and began looking over its contents.

The first thing that met his eyes was a dainty note that even the grimy hands of Ben Mauprat could not rob of its beauty.

Without the slightest hesitation he opened it. There was no beginning. It simply read:

"Nothing has been heard of the girl yet. We must find her at all hazards, and make sure that her mouth is securely closed, for upon that all depends. The engagement has been resumed, so that your interests are safe as far as Luis Kingsley is concerned. You seem to forget how much you owe me on that score, for the moment I am the wife of L. P. you can bring forward the proof that you have discovered, and you may be sure that you will get your part of the money. Trust me for that. If L. P. should hear anything of this, I mean so far as you are concerned, my chances with him would be dough. I send the money that you requested.

"E. C."

It did not require the initials to tell Neil who the writer was.

He remembered to have heard the name of Luis Kingsley before, but it was impossible for him to remember in exactly what connection; therefore, he pocketed the letter, and finding nothing further, he turned to Mauprat.

He shook him roughly by the shoulder.

"Say, are you dead, or what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Won't you ever wake up?"

Ben raised his bleared eyes, and lifted himself upon his elbow.

"Who in thunder are you?" he inquired sleepily.

"I'm Bob Wells," answered Lowell coolly.

"Well, who's Bob Wells? I never saw you before."

"But that is no reason why you'll never want to see me again. Say, do you want to find that girl that played detective in the house where the Chandlers live?"

That was quite enough to arouse Ben Mauprat on the instant.

"What do you know of her?" he asked, rising and looking as straight as his half-drunken eyes would allow into the boy's face.

"Never mind what I know. I asked if you wanted to find her."

"Yes, I do."

"How bad?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want to know bad enough to tell me what I want to know?"

"Tell me first what it is."

"I want to know what Luis Kingsley has done with the money that belongs to Lynde Pyne."

"Now what in thunder do you know about that?"

"More than I am going to let you know. Say, look a-here, Ben! You don't know me, but I do know you mighty blamed well. I'll just tell you who I am, as a pointer. I was Lynde Pyne's office-boy, but he discharged me fur---- Well, never mind what fur, I got the bounce, jist the same. A feller can't starve, and I have got to do jist that or git some money. Now I propose to help you if you will help me. Is it a go?"

"Hold, one minute! I don't know what you are talking about."

"'Tain't necessary fur you to know. All I say is that I know Luis Kingsley has got some money that belongs to Lynde Pyne. I know you know all about it. Do the square act on the divy about what you git out of it, and I will tell you all I know about that Cuyler girl."

Mauprat had opened his mouth to reply, when a violent pull at the bell interrupted him. Breathlessly he waited, and with apparently careless indifference, Neil waited also.

At the expiration of a few seconds, the door was opened by the woman who admitted Neil.

"There is some one to see you in the other room," she said to Mauprat.

By her manner, both her hearers knew as perfectly well who she meant as though she had spoken the name, but before either had time to think upon the subject at all, a heavily veiled woman pushed by her and entered the room.

"I wanted to see you, and have not time to wait!" she began; then paused suddenly.

Neil could feel the eyes through the veil fixed upon him piercingly.

He stood the test well, but started slightly as the long-gloved finger was pointed at him.

"Who is that?" demanded Miss Chandler, in the stoniest voice that Neil ever remembered to have heard.

"He is Bob Wells, a former office-boy of Lynde Pyne's," answered Mauprat, hurriedly. "I will----"

"Your 'office boy of Lynde Pyne's,' is Leonie Cuyler!" cried the young woman, excitedly. "You must be mad that you could not recognize her through that disguise!"

Mauprat uttered a low growl of rage.

Without a word, but showing his teeth like a ferocious canine, he sprung forward and caught Leonie by the throat.