“I will show you.” Carl led the way to No. 17, followed by his new acquaintance. Mr. Stuyvesant seemed very much pleased, and insisted on paying for the room at once. Carl accepted half the regular charges, and so the bargain was made. At ten o’clock the two travelers retired to bed. Carl was tired and went to sleep at once. He slept through the night. When he awoke in the morning the boat was in dock. He heard voices in the cabin, and the noise of the transfer of baggage and freight to the wharf. “I have overslept myself,” he said, and jumped up, hurriedly. He looked into the upper berth, but his roommate was gone. Something else was gone, too--his valise, and a wallet which he had carried in the pocket of his trousers. CHAPTER XXIX. THE LOST BANK BOOK. Carl was not long in concluding that he had been robbed by his roommate. It was hard to believe that a Stuyvesant--a representative of one of the old Dutch families of New Amsterdam--should have stooped to such a discreditable act. Carl was sharp enough, however, to doubt the genuineness of Mr. Stuyvesant’s claims to aristocratic lineage. Meanwhile he blamed himself for being so easily duped by an artful adventurer. To be sure, it was not as bad as it might be. His pocketbook only contained ten dollars in small bills. The balance of his money he had deposited for safe keeping in the inside pocket of his vest. This he had placed under his pillow, and so it had escaped the notice of the thief. The satchel contained a supply of shirts, underclothing, etc., and he was sorry to lose it. The articles were not expensive, but it would cost him from a dozen to fifteen dollars to replace them. Carl stepped to the door of his stateroom and called a servant who was standing near. “How long have we been at the pier?” he asked. “About twenty minutes, sir.” “Did you see my roommate go out?” “A tall young man in a light overcoat?” “Yes.” “Yes, sir. I saw him.” “Did you notice whether he carried a valise in his hand?” “A gripsack? Yes, sir.” “A small one?” “Yes, sir.” “It was mine.” “You don’t say so, sir! And such a respectable-lookin’ gemman, sir.” “He may have looked respectable, but he was a thief all the same.” “You don’t say? Did he take anything else, sir?” “He took my pocketbook.” “Well, well! He was a rascal, sure! But maybe it dropped on the floor.” Carl turned his attention to the carpet, but saw nothing of the lost pocketbook. He did find, however, a small book in a brown cover, which Stuyvesant had probably dropped. Picking it up, he discovered that it was a bank book on the Sixpenny Savings Bank of Albany, standing in the name of Rachel Norris, and numbered 17,310. “This is stolen property, too,” thought Carl. “I wonder if there is much in it.” Opening the book he saw that there were three entries, as follows: 1883. Jan. 23. Five hundred dollars. “ June 10. Two hundred dollars. “ Oct. 21. One hundred dollars.