He found out the loss shortly after he reached Mr. St. Clive's, after rescuing Horace Elgert. He had been looking at some portraits of Irene, which had only just arrived from the photographers, and she had given him one to keep for himself. What should he do with such a gift but put it into his pocket-book--and his pocket-book was not there! Irene saw the change which came over his face when he had discovered the loss, and she asked him what was the matter. His face went quite white, so that Tom Warren, looking at him, wondered why such a manly, sensible chap should look so bad over such a little thing. But then Tom Warren had father and mother living, and plenty of friends around; so that made all the difference. He did not understand what it was to be all alone in the world, or how people like that treasured every relic of friends and happy days that had been. "Perhaps it tumbled from your pocket when you threw your coat off down by the river?" he suggested. "Let us go and have a look for it." And the two boys set off together. "He does seem cut up," the monitor reflected, as they ran on; for Ralph hardly had a word to say now, so anxious was he. But, no--no pocket-book was to be found. They searched every foot of the towing-path, and then went into the wood, to the very spot where they had rested that afternoon; but not a sign of the book could they see, and at last Warren declared that it was no use looking further. "You cannot have dropped it anywhere about here," he said, "unless some one has seen it and picked it up. Had it got your name inside?" "Yes," answered Ralph; "but then they won't know where to bring it. How will they know who Ralph Rexworth is, or where he lives? I am afraid I shall never see it again; and--and--" And Ralph broke off, unable to finish his sentence. "Oh, come, don't be like that, Rexworth!" protested Warren. "At any rate, you can advertise for it and offer a reward; and any one who found it would be only too glad to bring it back and get the money. An old pocket-book is not so great a find that any one would want to keep it from you." "No; it is only of value to me," admitted Ralph, giving one last vain look round. "Well, it is no use staying here now; and it is beginning to grow dark. I suppose that we had better go back." The St. Clives were quite anxious to know whether the book had been recovered when the two boys once more reached the house, and they were full of sympathy when Ralph sadly shook his head.