"I do wish," said the boy. "Give her the card, and tell her that I wish to see her on very important business that will admit of no delay." The man left with the card. In a few moments he returned, saying with a grin: "She don't know you, and she won't see you." And with an impudent leer, he extended the card to the boy. Al took it and hurriedly wrote a few words on the back. Then he returned it to the servant, saying: "Give it to Mrs. Anderson again; I think she will see me." The man hesitated, then said: "Well, I'll take it to her, but the chances are she'll give me orders to kick you out." With this cheering assurance he again departed. "I didn't like to do it," murmured Al, "but there was no help for it." In a few moments the flunky returned, his manner completely changed. "Please be kind enough to step into the drawing room, sir," he said, with the utmost politeness; "Mrs. Anderson will be down in one minute." A few minutes after Al Allston had left the theater a showily dressed, red-faced man of about thirty sauntered into the manager's private office where Mr. Wattles was seated alone. "So, Wattles, old man," he said, extending his hand, "we meet again." The manager started to his feet. "How dare you show your face here?" he cried, angrily. "Eh! What's all this?" said the newcomer, in real or feigned surprise. "I don't want to have anything more to do with you. A nice sort of advance agent you are, aren't you?" "There's none better, so they say," replied the fellow, with a tipsy leer. "What are you on your ear about?" "I have no time to bandy words with you. You are discharged." "What's that--I discharged? What ails you, Wattles?" "That's enough, Dick Farley. I told you after your last drunk that if the same thing occurred again I should have nothing more to do with you, and I meant it. Get out!" "But, Wattles, I haven't been on a booze. I have been drugged and kidnaped. Listen and I'll tell you all about it; it's the queerest affair you ever heard of." "I guess it is; I know your talent for inventing yarns. I don't want to hear this one." "Do you mean to insult me?" And Farley's face reddened. "That would be impossible." "It would, eh? See here, Gus Wattles, do you mean to say that you are going to throw me over and ruin my chances in the business?" "It is your own fault. I want to have nothing more to do with you." "Then I'm bounced?" "That is it, exactly." "Oh, it is? Well, I'll show you!" And the drink-maddened ruffian suddenly drew a knife and, brandishing it above his head, sprang toward his companion. In another second the weapon would have descended but for a most opportune interruption. "Stop!" Farley turned and glared in the direction from which the voice proceeded. Al Allston stood in the doorway, in his hand a revolver, which was leveled at the head of the would-be assassin. CHAPTER V. AL CLAIMS HIS REWARD.