74 in another hotel.  He did not dare to leave the room, but sat by the window, peering through the streaming panes into the storm-swept street below.  Gradually the fatigue his excitement had hitherto kept away began to overcome him; his eyes once or twice closed during his vigil, his head nodded against the pane.  He rose and walked up and down the room to shake off his drowsiness.  Another hour passed—­nine o’clock, blown in fitful, far-off strokes from some wind-rocked steeple.  Still no stranger.  How inviting the bed looked to his weary eyes!  The man had told him he wanted rest; he could lie down on the bed in his clothes until he came.  He would waken quickly and be ready for his benefactor’s directions.  It was a great temptation.  He yielded to it.  His head had scarcely sunk upon the pillow before he slipped into a profound and dreamless sleep.

He awoke with a start, and for a few moments lay vaguely staring at the sunbeams that stretched across his bed before he could recall himself.  The room was exactly as before, the portmanteau strapped and pushed under the table as he had left it.  There came a tap at the door—­the chambermaid to do up the room.  She had been there once already, but seeing him asleep, she had forborne to wake him.  Apparently the spectacle of a gentleman lying on the bed fully dressed, even to his boots, was not an unusual one at that hotel, for she made no comment.  It was twelve o’clock, but she would come again later.

He was bewildered.  He had slept the round of the clock—­that was natural after his fatigue—­but where was his benefactor?  The lateness of the time forbade the conclusion that he had merely slept elsewhere; he would assuredly have returned by this time to claim his portmanteau.  The portmanteau!  He unstrapped it and examined the contents again.  They were undisturbed as he had left them the night before.  There was a further change of linen, the buckskin bag, which he could see now contained a couple of Bank of England notes, with some foreign gold mixed with American half-eagles, and a cheap, rough memorandum book clasped with elastic, containing a letter in a boyish hand addressed “Dear Daddy” and signed “Bobby,” and a photograph of a boy taken by a foreign photographer at Callao, as the printed back denoted, but nothing giving any clue whatever to the name of the owner.

A strange idea seized him:  did the portmanteau really belong to the man who had given it to him?  Had he been the innocent receiver of stolen goods from some one who wished to escape detection?  He recalled now that he had heard stories of robbery of luggage by thieves “Sydney ducks”—­on the deserted wharves, and remembered, too,—­he could not tell why the thought had escaped him before,—­that the man had spoken with an English accent.  But the next moment he recalled his frank and open manner, and his mind cleared of all unworthy suspicion.  It was more than likely that his benefactor had taken this delicate way of making a free, permanent gift for that temporary service.  Yet he smiled faintly at the return of that youthful optimism which had caused him so much suffering.