“And so you are really Frank’s boy are you,” said the money-lender, speaking in a more conciliatory tone and evidently trying to recover his equanimity, “well I am glad to see you, glad to see you. I’ve been looking for you because, because—to tell the truth, there is a little money coming to you, not much my boy, not very much, but something. It was left to your father, and by his death goes to his next of kin. If you are really his son, you are entitled to it. But I must have proof you know, proof, before I can pay it over. Where do you live, my boy? Let me know your address and I will look you up and see that you receive every cent that is your due.” He wiped the perspiration from his face as he entered with much care in a memorandum book the address which Bruce gave him, which was that of Chief Trask’s house and not of the boy’s. And then, declaring that he could say no more until he received absolute proof that Bruce was what he represented himself to be, he opened the door and ushered his visitor out into the street. Bruce stood for a moment on the sidewalk, utterly bewildered by what he had heard. “Well, did yer brace de bloke?” demanded Skinny appearing suddenly in front of him. “Yes,” answered Bruce “and he told me he had some money to pay me that was left to my father.” “Hully gee,” exclaimed the boy. “Better look out though dat yer get all wot’s comin’ to yer. Dat Scar-faced Charlie don’t never pay bills in full.” CHAPTER XXXII. In his private office in the poor, shabby building, in which for reasons best known to himself he had chosen to establish his place of business, the tall saturnine black bearded and altogether mysterious character known already to some of our readers sat busy with books and letters. In the outer office his bookkeeper stood at his tall desk pausing now and then to talk to those who came in, intent on some business errand, and once in a while referring some particular person to his master who sat in the inside room.