“Yes. His son, Jack, and I run that news-stand together. I thought if he was at home I’d run up there while we’re waiting and ask him to lend me about five dollars.” “I guess you wouldn’t find him. Where’s the son?” “He’s at home, but he’s ill with quinsy. I wouldn’t want to trouble Jack with the business right now.” “What’s your name?” “Joseph Faulkner.” “All right, son, I’ll be your banker.” The agent thrust a hand in his pocket and brought out some crumpled bills and a lot of silver. “Five enough? You’d better have more, hadn’t you?” “Oh, no, thanks; five is quite enough. It’s mighty good of you, Mister――Mister――――” “Chase. Don’t mention it. Pay it back some time in a week and I shan’t miss it. Here you are.” Joe accepted the crumpled bills and repeated his thanks. At that moment the assistant came in and the agent, greeting him, introduced Joe. “Faulkner,” he explained, “is waiting for a message from Harris on Fourteen. It’ll probably come in from Mittenton before I get back, Jim. Get it straight, will you, and give to him?” He turned to Joe as he reached for his coat and hat behind the door. “Had your supper yet?” he asked. “No? Well, you don’t want to start off without something inside you. Come on over to the Palace and coal-up.” The Palace proved to be the identical small restaurant which had exhaled that enticing fragrance of coffee the morning of Joe’s arrival in Amesville. The repast, though simple, was well cooked, and Joe, who had forgotten all about supper, now discovered himself to be extremely hungry. Under the benign influence of a cup of steaming-hot coffee he confided the whole story to Mr. Chase and the latter gave flattering attention. “I remember reading in the paper about that cigar-stand of yours,” he said. “You had a box and let folks put their money in it, didn’t you? Did it work?” “Yes, but sometimes folks didn’t have the right change and then we lost a sale. So Jack and I decided we’d better hire someone to be there when we couldn’t. We neither of us liked the looks of Young very much, but we put in a cash register and thought it would be all right.” “What you needed, I guess, was a safe,” replied the agent drily. “Well, I hope you catch him, but, to be honest about it, Faulkner, I don’t believe you will. If he gets off at Upper Newton you’ll be able to trace him, I dare say, and you may if he goes on to Fostoria or Fremont; they’re smallish towns; but if he reaches Sandusky or Toledo it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack! What I’d do if I were you is go right to the police and put it up to them.” “Maybe that would be the best way,” agreed Joe doubtfully. “But, somehow, I don’t like to. Everyone would know about it, you see, and if――if Young didn’t exactly mean to pinch the money――――” “Didn’t mean to! You don’t suppose, do you, that it got stuck to his fingers and he couldn’t get it off?” asked the agent ironically.