Luke, quietly.
"Luke Walton is my name, sir, and I have sold you papers near the
Sherman House, in Chicago."

"I thought your face looked familiar," said Browning, assuming an
indifferent tone. "You have made a mistake in coming to Milwaukee. You
cannot do as well here as in Chicago."

"I have not come in search of a place. I have a good one at home."

"I suppose you have some object in coming to this city?"

"Yes; I came to see you."

"Upon my word, I ought to feel flattered, but I can't do anything for
you. I have some reputation in charitable circles, but I have my hands
full here."

"I have not come to ask you a favor, Mr. Browning. If you will allow
me, I will ask your advice in a matter of importance to me."

Browning brightened up. He was always ready to give advice.

"Go on!" he said.

"When I was a young boy my father went to California. He left my
mother, my brother, and myself very poorly provided for, but he hoped
to earn money at the mines. A year passed, and we heard of his
death."

"A good many men die in California," said Browning, phlegmatically.

"We could not learn that father left anything, and we were compelled
to get long as we could. Mother obtained sewing to do at low prices,
and I sold papers."

"A common experience!" said Browning, coldly.

"About three months ago," continued Luke, "we were surprised by
receiving in a letter from a stranger, a message from my father's
deathbed."

Thomas Browning started and turned pale, as he gazed intently in the
boy's face.

"How much does he know?" he asked himself, apprehensively.

"Go on!" he said, slowly.

"In this letter we learned for the first time that father had
intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to an acquaintance to be
brought to my mother. This man proved false and kept the money."

"This story may or may not be true," said Browning, with an effort.
"Was the man's name given?"

"Yes; his name was Thomas Butler."

"Indeed! Have you ever met him?"

"I think so," answered Luke, slowly. "I will read his description from
the letter: He has a wart on the upper part of his right cheek--a mark
which disfigures and mortifies him exceedingly. He is about five feet
ten inches in height, with a dark complexion and dark hair, a little
tinged with gray.

"Let me see the letter," said Browning, hoarsely.

He took the letter in his hand, and, moving near the grate fire, began
to read it. Suddenly the paper as if accidentall