“I am sorry for you, young man; but it is plain enough that you have been robbed of your money by a swindler,” said the cashier, shaking his head. “You will never see your eighteen dollars again.” “But Mr. Klucker was a missionary; and he went about looking up the sick and the stranger,” protested Wade, confounded by the explanation of his long waiting. “Especially for the stranger,” added the cashier, with a significant smile. “You should have handed your money in at this window, and then it would have been all right.” “I thought this man was a New York saint,” added Wade, with about all the pluck taken out of him. “No: he was a New York sinner.” “But he was going to get me a place to work, and I never thought that he could be a thief.” “That is just what he was,” said the cashier, resuming his work. “But where shall I find Mr. Klucker?” asked Wade, not yet reconciled to the loss of his eighteen dollars. “You will not find him: he will diligently keep out of your way during the rest of your stay in New York. You can go to the police; but I think it will do no good,” answered the cashier, with more indifference in his manner than a boy who has lost eighteen dollars likes to see. Wade Brooks hung round the bank till noon, in the hope that Mr. Klucker had been slandered by the cashier, and that he would return to restore his money. But the missionary was not one of that sort of men: when he got any money into his hands, no matter by what means, he made a business of holding on to it. He did not show himself again. Wade left the bank with a heavy heart. Was that the kind of saints they had in New York? The unhappy boy from the country walked down the street, looking at every man he met, in the hope that he might see the swindler; but he did not. He continued his walk till he reached the cheap restaurant where he had eaten his breakfast. He went in, and asked the man at the counter if he could tell him who the man was that he had met at the table. “His name is Jeremy Diddler,” replied the man, with a coarse laugh. “Can you tell me where he lives?” added Wade, glad to learn the name of the New York saint. “He lives on green countrymen most of the time,” laughed the man. “But I mean, where is his house?” “His house! he don’t have any house except when he is boarded at the county hotel.” “Where is that?” asked Wade blankly. “It is on an island in East River; but he is not boarding there just now,” said the man, winking at a waiter who was listening to the conversation. “Can you tell me where I shall be likely to find him?” asked the unhappy Wade. “I cannot; but you can inquire for him at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and they will tell you whether he is there or not,” said the keeper of the restaurant, winking again at the waiter. Wade wanted to know where the Fifth Avenue Hotel was, and was told so that he could find it. “I say, sonny, have you been boarding that dead beat?” inquired the keeper. “Boarding what?”