“Of what nature?”

“Excuse me, but I don’t care to mention it at present.”

“Humph! you are very cautious for a young man, or rather boy.”

“Isn’t that a good trait, sir?”

“Good, but unusual.  Are you a schoolboy?”

“No, sir; I am a drummer.”

Mr. Norris put on a pair of glasses and scrutinized Carl more closely.

“I should like to see—­just out of curiosity—­the man that you travel for,” he said.

“I will ask him to call whenever he visits Albany.  There is his card.”

Mr. Norris took it.

“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed.  “It is Henry Jennings, an old schoolmate of mine.”

“And a good business man, even if he has sent out such a young drummer.”

“I should say so.  There must be something in you, or he wouldn’t have trusted you.  How is Jennings?”

“He is well, sir—­well and prosperous.”

“That is good news.  Are you in his employ?”

“Yes, sir.  This is the first time I have traveled for him.”

“How far are you going?”

“As far as Chicago.”

“I don’t see what you can have to do with Rachel Norris.  However, I don’t mind telling you that she is my aunt, and—­well, upon my soul!  Here she is now.”

And he ran hastily to greet a tall, thin lady, wearing a black shawl, who at that moment entered the office.

CHAPTER XXX.

An eccentric woman.

Miss Norris dropped into a chair as if she were fatigued.

“Well, Aunt Rachel, how are you feeling this morning?” asked her nephew.

“Out of sorts,” was the laconic reply.

“I am very sorry for that.  I suppose there is reason for it.”

“Yes; I’ve been robbed.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Norris.  “Lost your purse?  I wonder more ladies are not robbed, carrying their money as carelessly as they do.”

“That isn’t it.  I am always careful, as careful as any man.”

“Still you got robbed.”

“Yes, but of a bank book.”

Here Carl became attentive.  It was clear that he would not have to look any farther for the owner of the book he had found in his stateroom.

“What kind of a bank book?” inquired Mr. Norris.

“I had nearly a thousand dollars deposited in the Sixpenny Savings Bank.  I called at the bank to make some inquiries about interest, and when I came out I presume some rascal followed me and stole the book——­”

“Have you any idea who took it?”

“I got into the horse cars, near the bank; next to me sat a young man in a light overcoat.  There was no one on the other side of me.  I think he must have taken it.”

“That was Stuyvesant,” said Carl to himself.

“When did this happen, Aunt Rachel?”

“Three days since.”

“Why didn’t you do something about it before?”