He left the key, and went out into the street.  He hailed a passing car in Tremont Street, and rode for some distance.  In Court Street he got on board a Charlestown car, and in half an hour found himself in the city everywhere known by the granite shaft that commemorates the battle of Bunker Hill.  He made his way to a hotel, where he took a room, entering here under the name of James Simmons, Portsmouth, New Hampshire.  Anxious to examine his prize, he desired to be shown at once to a chamber.  He followed the servant who conducted him with impatient steps.  The stolen money was burning in his pocket.  He wanted to know how much he had, and was more than half resolved to take an early train the next morning for the West, where he thought he should be secure from discovery.

“Is there anything wanted, sir?” asked the servant, lingering at the door.

“No, no,” said Fairfax, impatiently.  “It’s all right.”

“Might be a little more polite,” muttered the snubbed servant, as he went downstairs.

“Now for it!” exclaimed Fairfax, exultingly.  “Now, let me see how much I have got.”

He drew the pocketbook from his pocket, and opened it.  His heart gave a quick thump, and he turned ashy pale, as his glance rested upon the worthless roll of brown paper with which it had been stuffed.

“Curse the boy!” he cried, in fierce and bitter disappointment.  “He has fooled me, after all!  Why didn’t I stop long enough to open the pocketbook before I came away?  Blind, stupid fool that I was!  I am as badly off as before—­nay, worse, for I have exposed myself to suspicion, and haven’t got a penny to show for it.”

I will not dwell upon his bitter self-reproaches, and, above all, the intense mortification he felt at having been so completely fooled by a boy, whom he had despised as verdant and inexperienced in the ways of the, world—­to think that success had been in his grasp, and he had missed it, after all, was certainly disagreeable enough.  It occurred to him that he might go back to the Adams House even now, and repair his blunder.  It was not likely that Andy was awake yet.  He was very weary, and boys of his age were likely, unless disturbed, to sleep through the night.  He might retrieve his error, and no one would be the wiser.

“I’ll do it,” he said, at length.

He went downstairs, and left the hotel without the knowledge of the clerk.  Jumping into the horse-cars, he returned to Boston, and entered the Adams House about half-past twelve o’clock.  He claimed his key at the desk, and went upstairs to his room.  He had scarcely lit the gas, however, when a knock was heard at the door.  Opening it unsuspiciously, he turned pale, as he recognized the clerk, in company with an officer of the law.

“What’s wanted?” he faltered.

“You are wanted,” was the brief reply.

“What for?” he gasped.

“You are charged with entering the adjoining room, and stealing a pocketbook from the boy who sleeps there.”