them--and he seemed contented enough to be
there for the present. The possibility of arrest had jarred the
youngster more than a little, and he hunched down on the little forward
seat and breathed quite heavily. And now Anthony's deep, kindly voice
was addressing him with--

"You'll come home with me for a little while, youngster?"

Mr. Boller drew a long, resigned breath and prepared to back the boy in
every objection his doubtless normal mind should offer--but they chanced
to pause by an arc lamp just then and he caught the boy's expression.

It was really a queer thing to see. No fear was there at all now, but
only the overwhelming, innocent curiosity of youth, mingled with an
inscrutable something else. One might have called it a daredevil light,
breathing the young craving for adventure, but Johnson Boller, with an
unaccountable shudder, felt that it was not just that.

To save him, he could not have named the quality; he sensed it rather
than actually saw it, but it was there just the same--an ominous,
mocking, speculative amusement that had no place at all in the eye of an
elevator boy when looking at the wealthy, dignified Anthony Fry. The
boy's fine teeth showed for a moment as he asked:

"Pardon me, but what's it all about? Why under the sun should I go home
with you?"

"Because I want to talk confidentially to you for an hour."

"You're not judging from these togs that I'm a criminal, are you?" the
boy grinned, and it seemed to Johnson Boller that the tone was far too
cultivated for the clothes.

"What?"

"I mean, you don't want any one murdered, or anything of that kind?"

Anthony laughed richly.

"By no means, my dear boy. As to what it is all about I'll tell you when
we get there. You'll come?"

"I think not," the boy said frankly.

"But----"

"Nix! I don't know why, but I don't like the idea. I think it's a little
bit too unusual. Who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Fry, if that tells you anything," smiled its owner.

"Fry?" the boy repeated.

"Anthony Fry."

"Eh?" the youngster said, and there was a peculiarly sharp note in his
voice.

"He makes Fry's Liniment," Johnson Boller put in disgustedly, yet
happily withal because it was plain that the boy would have no part in
spoiling his chess game and the little chat about Beatrice. "He has a
lot of theories not connected with the liniment business, kid, and he
wants to bore you to death with some of them. They wouldn't interest you