is case dishonesty has paid me
richly. If the boy has heard anything, it is lucky that I changed my
name to Browning out of deference to my wife's aunt, in return for a
beggarly three thousand dollars. I have made it up to ten thousand
dollars by judicious investment. My young newsboy acquaintance will
find it hard to identify me with the Thomas Butler who took charge of
his father's money."

If Browning had been possessed of a conscience it might have troubled
him when he was brought face to face with one of the sufferers from
his crime; but he was a hard, selfish man, to whom his own interests
were of supreme importance.

But something happened within an hour which gave him a feeling of
anxiety.

He was just coming out of the Chicago post-office, at the corner of
Adams and Clark Streets, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

"How are you, Butler?" said a tall man, wearing a Mexican sombrero. "I
haven't set eyes upon you since we were together at Gold Gulch, in
California."

Browning looked about him apprehensively. Fortunately he was some
distance from the corner where Luke Walton was selling papers.

"I am well, thank you," he said.

"Are you living in Chicago?"

"No; I live in Wisconsin."

"Have you seen anything of the man you used to be with so
much--Walton?"

"No; he died."

"Did he, indeed? Well, I am sorry to hear that. He was a good fellow.
Did he leave anything?"

"I am afraid not."

"I thought he struck it rich."

"So he did; but he lost all he made."

"How was that?"

"Poor investments, I fancy."

"I remember he told me one day that he had scraped together seven or
eight thousand dollars."

Browning shrugged his shoulders. "I think that was a mistake," he
said. "Walton liked to put his best foot foremost."

"You think, then, he misrepresented?"

"I think he would have found it hard to find the sum you mention."

"You surprise me, Butler. I always looked upon Walton as a singularly
reliable man."

"So he was--in most things. But let me correct you on one point. You
call me Butler?"

"Isn't that your name?"

"It was, but I had a reason--a good, substantial, pecuniary
reason--for changing it. I am now Thomas Browning."

"Say you so? Are you engaged this evening?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"I was about to invite you to some theater."

"Another time--thanks."

"I must steer clear of that man," thought Browning. "I won't meet him
again, if I can help it."

CHAPT