Mr. Bang availed himself of the best accommodations, and accepted the chest.  He stretched himself upon it, having settled the bill, but slept little.  His mind was continually roaming.  Now he imagined himself in the closet, with scarcely room to breathe, and an officer’s hand on the latch; now groping along untraversed paths, till, falling into some hole, he awoke from his revery.

’T was near the dawn of day when, from his house, accompanied by the boy, Mr. Lang passed out in search of Bill.  A light rain was falling, and in perspective he saw a dull, drizzly sort of a day,—­a bad air for a low-spirited individual.  The “blues” are contagious on such a day.  Yet he strove to keep his spirits up, and to make the best of a bad job.

As he passed by the office of the broker, he perceived a crowd, and many anxious inquiries were heard respecting the robbery.  It appeared the broker had received but little injury, and was as busy as any one in endeavoring to find out the rogue.  Harry put on as bold a face as possible, and inquired of the broker the circumstances, which he very minutely narrated.

“Have you any suspicions of any one?” inquired Mr. Lang.

“Of no one,” was the brief response.

“It would be very sad if the rascal could not be found,” continued Mr. Lang.  “The gallows is too good for one who would make such a cowardly attack, and treat with such baseness one who never harmed his fellow.”

“I am of your opinion,” answered the broker; and the two, having thus fully expressed their opinion, parted.

Mr. Lang was not much troubled in finding his companion.  He entered the cellar just as the latter had arisen from his chesty couch, and a cordial grasp of the hand bore witness that friends had met.

Both were aware that the place in which they were was not of very good repute, and made all possible haste to remove.  But, to effect this successfully, it was necessary that Mr. Lang should have a change of dress.

He was making this change when half a dozen men unexpectedly entered.  “You are my prisoner,” said one, catching hold of Mr. Lang by the coat-collar.  “Tropes, secure the other.”

They were now both in custody, and the officers, after a little search, discovered the broken box, and arrested the black man.

“For what am I arrested?” inquired Mr. Lang.

“That you will soon know,” was the reply.

“But I demand an answer now.  I will not move a step till I get it.”

“What! what’s that?” said a stout, rough-looking man, striking the prisoner, and treating him more like a dog than what he was.

“I demand an answer to my inquiry.  For what am I arrested?”

“He’s a dangerous man,” remarked another of the officers; “it’s best to put him in irons;” whereupon he drew from a capacious pocket a pair of rusty manacles.  Mr. Lang, and his two fellows in trouble, found it best to coolly submit, and did so.  Five minutes passed, and the cold walls of a prison enclosed them.