He listened attentively as Bruce described his visits to the Dexter mansion, and then said to him “Wot’s de matter wid bracin’ him in his Eldridge Street joint?” “But I don’t know where it is,” replied the other. “Come along wid me, an’ I’ll show yer,” said Skinny quickly, and, having paid the check and handed the amazed waiter a quarter, coupling his gift with an admonition to “hustle lively” the next time he had any visitors of distinction to wait on, the newsboy led the way down the Bowery which was by this time crowded with people and brilliantly lighted, to Grand Street, and then in an easterly direction to a corner from which he could see the building in which Mr. Korwein had his office. But beyond this corner Skinny positively refused to go. Plucky as he was, and heedless of results, he had a profound fear for the big strong man out of whose stern grasp he had wriggled that very day. “You go over dere, an’ brace de old bloke. I’ll wait here. He’s dere, fer de lights in the windy,” he said. And Bruce was forced to make his visit alone. Never before in his life had he gone about any task that so tried his nerves as this one, and it was fully five minutes before he could make up his mind to open the door and enter the money-lender’s dingy office. At last, however, his will conquered his fears, and he marched boldly up the steps, opened the door and closed it behind him with a sharp bang. Mr. Korwein was standing behind the tall desk adding up a long column of figures in his ledger. He looked up as the boy entered and said rather roughly: “Well, what can I do for you this evening?” “I’m not quite sure what you can do for me,” rejoined his visitor, looking him carefully in the face and speaking in a tone which arrested the tall man’s attention at once. “I heard that you are making some rather particular inquiries about me, and I thought if there was anything you wanted to know, I might be able to tell you myself.” “Inquiries about you!” repeated Mr. Korwein, dropping his pen and coming out from behind the tall desk, in order to get a good view of his visitor, “why, who are you?” “My name is Bruce Decker, and I am the son of Frank Decker, the fireman,” was the boy’s answer. Not much in the words he uttered nor in the tone of his voice, one would say. But enough to drive every particle of color from the money-lender’s face and to cause him to start back with a half suppressed oath on his lips, and an expression in which rage, disappointment and astonishment seemed to be blended in equal parts. “Frank Decker’s son! He never had any son!” he exclaimed. “Oh yes he did,” replied Bruce “and I am that son. I heard you were looking for me. Now that I am here, tell me what you want.”