med James Grey, his eyes lighting up with joy. "Come up."

Again they found themselves in the same room in which Gilbert and his
uncle had formerly had their interview.

"The paper," said Mr. Grey, impatiently.

"You'll pay me the money?" said Maurice, cautiously.

"If the paper is correct, you may be assured of that."

Upon this assurance Maurice withdrew the paper from his pocket, and
passed it over to his companion. The latter opened it, and glanced over
it triumphantly.

"Is it right?"

"Yes, it is right. It is the forged paper. We have put a spoke in the
wheel of that impudent young impostor. He can do nothing now. But you
want your money, and you shall have it."

Mr. Grey took out his pocket-book and counted out five twenty-dollar
bills, which he put in the hands of his agent.

"Now confess," he said, "you never earned money more easily."

"No," said Maurice; "but I wouldn't like to go through it again.
Suppose Grey had come in while I was at his trunk?"

"Tell me how you managed it--I am curious to know."

So Maurice told the story, which amused his auditor not a little,
especially when he tried on the mustache in his presence.

"You are a regular conspirator," he said, smiling. "You absolutely have
a genius for intrigue."

Maurice felt complimented by this remark, and the fact that he was the
possessor of over a hundred dollars, put him in very good spirits.

"When do you think Gilbert will find out his loss?" he asked.

"Very likely not till he calls on me. He will wonder how he met with
the loss."

"I must be going, Mr. Grey," said Maurice. "It is about time for
lunch."

"I would invite you to lunch with me, but it might lead to suspicions."

"Thank you all the same."

"Now the boy may do his worst," said James Grey, exultingly. "He has
lost his proof, and has nothing but his own assertion to fall back
upon. _I am out of danger._"

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE TABLES TURNED.

As Maurice Walton left the Burnet House, he fell in with the one whom
he most wished to avoid. Gilbert was returning to the store, after his
usual midday lunch. He was surprised to see Maurice, supposing him at
home, suffering from the headache.

"How do you happen to be here, Maurice?" he asked. "I thought you were
at home."

"My head felt so bad that I thought I would come out into the fresh
air," answered Maurice, a little confused.

"Do you feel better?"

"A little. I think I'll go home and go to bed