Randolph looked.  It was indeed the same man, who had probably reached the wharf by a cross street.

“Let us go on, do!” said Miss Avondale, suddenly tightening her hold of Randolph’s arm in some instinctive feminine alarm.  “I don’t like this place.”

But Randolph, with the young girl’s arm clinging to his, felt supremely daring.  Indeed, I fear he was somewhat disappointed when the stranger peacefully turned into the junk shop at the corner and left them to pursue their way.

They at last stopped before some business offices on a central thoroughfare, where Randolph had a room on the third story.  When they had climbed the flight of stairs he unlocked a door and disclosed a good-sized apartment which had been intended for an office, but which was now neatly furnished as a study and bedroom.  Miss Avondale smiled at the singular combination.

“I should fancy,” she said, “you would never feel as if you had quite left the bank behind you.”  Yet, with her air of protection and mature experience, she at once began to move one or two articles of furniture into a more tasteful position, while Randolph, nevertheless a little embarrassed at his audacity in asking this goddess into his humble abode, hurriedly unlocked a closet, brought out the portmanteau, and handed her the letter and photograph.

Woman-like, Miss Avondale looked at the picture first.  If she experienced any surprise, she repressed it.  “It is like Bobby,” she said meditatively, “but he was stouter then; and he’s changed sadly since he has been in this climate.  I don’t wonder you didn’t recognize him.  His father may have had it taken some day when they were alone together.  I didn’t know of it, though I know the photographer.”  She then looked at the letter, knit her pretty brows, and with an abstracted air sat down on the edge of Randolph’s bed, crossed her little feet, and looked puzzled.  But he was unable to detect the least emotion.

“You see,” she said, “the handwriting of most children who are learning to write is very much alike, for this is the stage of development when they ‘print.’  And their composition is the same:  they talk only of things that interest all children—­pets, toys, and their games.  This is only any child’s letter to any father.  I couldn’t really say it was Bobby’s.  As to the photograph, they have an odd way in South America of selling photographs of anybody, principally of pretty women, by the packet, to any one who wants them.  So that it does not follow that the owner of this photograph had any personal interest in it.  Now, as to your mysterious patron himself, can you describe him?” She looked at Randolph with a certain feline intensity.

He became embarrassed.  “You know I only saw him once, under a street lamp”—­he began.

“And I have only seen Captain Dornton—­if it were he—­twice in three years,” she said.  “But go on.”

Again Randolph was unpleasantly impressed with her cold, dryly practical manner.  He had never seen his benefactor but once, but he could not speak of him in that way.