It appears that on his last morning in New York, the Baron found that his note-book had been taken from his room in the hotel. His servant and his baggage had already gone on to the steamer, and the Baron prepared to follow. First, however, as he still had two hours to spare, he thought he would take a final glimpse of Fifth Avenue. These are the little accidents which generally decide our fate in life--the visit to some friend, the call on a stranger, the unpremeditated walk. As the Baron was passing along, a carriage suddenly stopped, a 'fashionably-dressed gentleman' jumped out, and ran up to the traveller with a cordial salutation. He introduced himself as a guest who had dined, with the Baron, at a dinner given by Lord Augustus Loftus in Sydney. 'I am one of the admirers,' he said, 'of your "Promenade autour du Monde," and I venture to ask you to do me the favour of writing your name in my copy of that book. In return, pray accept a volume of Longfellow's poems, with the author's autograph.' The fashionable stranger had skilfully touched the weak place in an author's heart. Baron Huebner consented to be driven back to his hotel, where his new friend was also residing. On the way, the stranger suddenly bethought himself that the two books were at the house of an acquaintance, 'two steps from the hotel.' He put his head out of the window, gave some fresh directions to the coachman, and the Baron soon found himself being whirled along at a furious rate along streets which he did not recognize. Still, the old traveller had no suspicion of anything wrong. His voyages and adventures certainly seem to have left him in a more than ordinarily unsophisticated condition. At last the carriage stopped, our author was conducted into the dark passage of a small house, and then into a little dirty room, where he found a tall man seated before a table, with his back to a mirror. In that mirror, the Baron saw his dear friend from Sydney gently lock the door, and put the key in his pocket. Then he understood all about it.