"Possibly you may have wondered what his business is here?" "Yes, sir." "He is a confidence man. His business is to pick up victims, and make what he can out of them. Do you see that old gentleman over by the window?" "Yes, sir." "He is an honest and probably well-to-do old farmer, I judge. That fellow has been having a talk with him. When he saw me he had business elsewhere. But he hasn't given up his scheme for bleeding the old man. Probably he will have another interview with him to-morrow. Now I should like to have you keep your eye on the two. Find out if you can what the man is after. I can't, for he knows me by sight. I want to foil his schemes and save the old man from loss. Here is my address." The detective placed in Rupert's hand a small, plain card, bearing the name, RICHARD DARKE. Below he put his address, which need not be given here. "Don't say anything about this," he said, "except to me. Should you mention it to anyone else in the hotel the fellow would soon see that he was watched, and we might fail to catch him. I am reposing considerable confidence in a boy." "Yes, sir, but you will not regret it." "I believe you," said the detective, cordially. "I'll see you again soon." "One moment, Mr. Darke. What is the young man's name?" "He has several. The one he uses most frequently is Clarence Clayton." "I will remember it, sir." Clarence Clayton left the Somerset Hotel in good spirits. He felt like an angler who was on the point of landing a fine fish. "I wonder if old Darke saw me talking with that old Granger," he soliloquized. "I hope not. Probably he knows me, though thus far I have escaped having my picture in the Rogues' Gallery. Those old fellows know everybody. Fortunately there is no regular detective at the Somerset, and I shall be able to finish my negotiations with my country friend before he drops in again." Mr. Clarence Clayton was getting low in funds. Somehow fortune had not favored him of late, and the sums he had realized out of recent victims were very small. Yet he felt so confident of success in the present instance that he sauntered up to the Sinclair House, at the corner of Broadway and Eighth Street, and going into the restaurant, which has a high reputation for choice viands, he ordered an appetizing repast at a cost of a dollar. He was scarcely half through when a young man, got up in very much the same style, came in and sat down opposite him. "Ha, Clayton!" he said, "so you're in luck." "How do, Mortimer? What makes you think so?" "Your extravagant spread. It isn't permitted to failures like your humble servant to dine in such princely style." "Then why come here at all?" "I am only going to order fish balls and coffee, but I want those good, and shall get them good here. Have you made a ten-strike?" "No; business is dull with me, but I think I'm on the track of a fair thing." "What is it, and where?"