“Who are you?” was his first and somewhat rough question, addressed to the two boys. “Who am I?” exclaimed Val, proudly. “I’m Valentine Manning, son of Dr. Randall Manning, and this is Mr. Barnaby Vernon, who is visiting with me.” “And this,” added Bar, pointing at Major Montague, “is a very well-known bad character. I believe he is a professional pickpocket; but I couldn’t make a charge against him, except for assault on me now.” “I don’t know if I’d better take you in charge,” began the policeman; but just then the proprietor of the gymnasium came down the stairs. “Anything the matter, Mr. Manning?” he said to Val. “I thought you and your friend were up in the room. Policeman, what is that fellow up to?” “Some game or other, I don’t quite understand what. My man,” he added to the Major, “you’ve missed it this time. I’ll remember you, though. Move on, now, and don’t let me see you loafing on my beat. Move!” Major Montague’s face was purple with wrath, but he saw very clearly that it was not his day. How on earth Bar should so soon have found friends, and strange ones, and become a recognized member of “society,” instead of a homeless and wandering vagabond, was a puzzle that surpassed his utmost guessing. There was no doubt about it, however, for there stood the gymnasium proprietor, one of the best known men in the city, and there was the policeman. Dreadfully positive and practical looked the latter, to be sure; and the Major had no choice but to give the matter up for a bad job and “move on.” He determined, however, to get at the bottom of the mystery some day, cost what it might. Bar thanked the policeman very pleasantly, as he and Val turned away, but he felt as if there would be a load of fear on his heart until he could get off somewhere, away beyond the danger of any more such meetings. Not but that he felt sure of protection from any real harm, but he wanted his deliverance from his “old time” to be absolute and complete, and it could hardly be so with Major Montague in the immediate neighborhood. “I don’t want to ask any questions, Bar,” said Val, “but does my father know anything about that fellow?” “You’ve a right to ask that,” said Bar. “Yes, he does, and so does Judge Danvers. I meant every word I said to him or about him. He’s a miserable fellow, and I don’t mean he shall bother me at all. Let’s go somewhere and get a lunch. I’ll stand treat.” “No, you can’t,” exclaimed Val. “You’re my guest, you know. Come on. I know where we can get a tip-top one.” Of course he did, for he took Bar at once to a fashionable up-town restaurant of the very first class. The way to it was in the opposite direction from the one Major Montague had taken, and Bar experienced a feeling of relief at finding himself at one of the little marble-topped tables, with so many well-appearing ladies and gentlemen around him. A moment later, however, Val asked him: “What’s the matter, Bar, my boy? You look pale.”