He was not to see Paul until the next morning. He secured lodgings at a low hotel on the Bowery, where twenty five cents per night was charged. The accommodation corresponded with the price, but Barclay, fresh from Sing Sing, was not inclined to be fastidious, and congratulated himself that again he was a free man. He was not unmindful of his business, but was on the lookout for a chance to exchange his counterfeit bills for good ones. He strolled into a drinking saloon, and called for a drink. By his side a man, from the country, apparently, was just paying for a glass of whisky, and in so doing displayed a wallet filled with bills. Barclay felt interested in him at once. “My friend,” he said, “won’t you drink with me? I hate to drink alone.” “You’re very polite, stranger, but I--hic--I guess I’m about full.” “O, you can stand another glass, I am sure.” “Well, I don’t mind,” hiccoughed the countryman. “You’re a--gen--gentleman.” “So are you,” said Barclay, with a wink at the barkeeper. “What’ll you have?” The countryman expressed a wish for whisky straight, and was served with a glass. Then the two sat down, and engaged in conversation. It was evident from the thick utterance of the gentleman of the rural districts, that he was no longer master of himself. “By the way,” said Barclay, carelessly, “will you do me a favor?” “I can’t lend you any money,” answered the other, with a remnant of prudence. “I promised my wife I wouldn’t.” “O, I don’t want a loan,” said Barclay. “Bless you, I’ve got money enough. But I see you’ve got a number of bills. Couldn’t you change a ten for me?” The countryman saw no harm in this, and counted out ten dollars in small bills, for which he accepted a nice crisp ten dollar bill, which looked handsome, but, as we know, was not worth the paper it was printed upon. “Won’t you take another drink in acknowledgment of the favor?” asked Barclay. “It has saved my going to the bank.” The countryman was already so dizzy, that he had the good sense to refuse, after trying to balance himself on his feet without success. “Then I’ll bid you good day,” said Barclay, who, for obvious reasons, desired now to terminate the acquaintance. “Goo’ day,” said the other, in a husky voice. “That was very well done!” soliloquized Barclay, as he counted the good money and put it by itself in an upper vest pocket. “The fellow’s so drunk that he’ll never know where he got the bad tenner. That’ll do for one day’s work.” The next morning, a little before the time agreed upon with Paul, he was crossing the City Hall Park, when he unexpectedly met the telegraph boy. “Good morning, Number 91,” he said. “I was just coming up to the office to look for you.” “Then you are saved the trouble.” “Yes; and now what word from my father? Where can I find him?” “He does not seem willing to see you,” answered Paul. James Barclay frowned angrily.