“But how does he get money to pay his way?” said Alonzo puzzled.

“As to that, he is probably selling papers or blacking boots in the lower part of the city.  He could make enough to live on, and of course he wouldn’t let you know what he was doing.”

“I hope you’re right, ma.  I’d give ever so much to catch him blacking boots in City Hall Park, or anywhere else; I’d give him a job.  Wouldn’t he feel mortified to be caught?”

“No doubt he would.”

“I’ve a great mind to go down town to-morrow and look about for him.”

“Very well, Lonny.  You may to if you want to.”

Alonzo did go; but he looked in vain for Phil.  The latter was employed in doing some writing and attending to some accounts for Mr. Carter, who had by this time found that his protege was thoroughly well qualified for such work.

So nearly a week passed.  It so chanced that though Uncle Oliver had now been in New York a considerable time, not one of the Pitkins had met him or had reason to suspect that he was nearer than Florida.

One day, however, among Mrs. Pitkin’s callers was Mrs. Vangriff, a fashionable acquaintance.

“Mr. Oliver Carter is your uncle, I believe?” said the visitor.

“Yes.”

“I met him on Broadway the other day.  He was looking very well.”

“It must have been a fortnight since, then.  Uncle Oliver is in Florida.”

“In Florida!” repeated Mrs. Vangriff, in surprise.

“When did he go?”

“When was it, Lonny?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, appealing to her son.

“It will be two weeks next Thursday.”

“There must be some mistake,” said the visitor.

“I saw Mr. Carter on Broadway, near Twentieth Street, day before yesterday.”

“Quite a mistake, I assure you, Mrs. Vangriff,” said Mrs. Pitkin, smiling.  “It was some other person.  You were deceived by a fancied resemblance.”

“It is you who are wrong, Mrs. Pitkin,” said Mrs. Vangriff, positively.  “I am somewhat acquainted with Mr. Carter, and I stopped to speak with him.”

“Are you sure of this?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, looking startled.

“Certainly, I am sure of it.”

“Did you call him by name?”

“Certainly; and even inquired after you.  He answered that he believed you were well.  I thought he was living with you?”

“So he was,” answered Mrs. Pitkin coolly as possible, considering the startling nature of the information she had received.  “Probably Uncle Oliver returned sooner than he anticipated, and was merely passing through the city.  He has important business interests at the West.”

“I don’t think he was merely passing through the city, for a friend of mine saw him at the Fifth Avenue Theater last evening.”

Mrs. Pitkin actually turned as pale as her sallow complexion would admit.

“I am rather surprised to hear this, I admit,” she said.  “Was he alone, do you know?”