About midnight I fell into a light doze.  Half an hour later I awoke with a start.  Some one was talking in the room.  Sitting up, I listened intently.  It was Duncan, muttering in his sleep.

“Lift the spring, Pultzer,” he said in a whisper.  “Hist! don’t make so much noise, the old gent may hear you.”  He paused for a moment.  “There wasn’t any money.  But I’ve got the papers, yes, I’ve got the papers, and when I find out their true value the old gent shall pay me to keep quiet.”

I could not help but start at Duncan’s words.  Like a flash of lightning came the revelation to me.  He had entered his father’s library and taken the papers which Mr. Woodward had accused me of stealing.

It was as clear as day.  It explained why Pultzer, accompanied by another, who must have been of the party, had been out so late the night of the robbery.  They had helped Duncan in his nefarious work, hoping they would be rewarded by the finding of a sum of money.  Evidently the Models were a bad set, and I was thoroughly glad Dick Blair had turned his back upon them.

I waited with bated breath for Duncan to continue his speaking, but was disappointed.  He turned over on his side and dreamed on, without a word.

At length I fell asleep.  When I awoke it was daylight.  I jumped up and looked at Duncan.  He was just stirring, and a moment later he opened his eyes.

“Where am I?” he asked, with a puzzled look at me.

“You’re all right, Duncan,” I replied.  “Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yes, I do now.  How my head hurts.  Is there any water around?”

I went over to the faucet and drew him a glass.  He sat up and gulped it down.

“Have we been here all night?”

“Yes.”

“You saved me from those toughs that wanted to rob me last night?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not dreaming?”

“No, you’re not,” I laughed.  “I was just in the nick of time.”

“I know it all.  You saved me, brought me to this place, and put me to bed.  Roger, you’re a better fellow than I thought you were.  You’re a better fellow than I am.”

“You ought to turn over a new leaf,” I said.

“Don’t preach, Roger.”

“I’m not preaching.  I’m only telling you something for your own good.”

“I know it.  I don’t blame you.  I’ve been doing wrong—­ sowing my wild oats.  But they’re all gone now.  Just let me get straightened out and I’ll be a different fellow, see if I’m not.”

“I hope so with all my heart.  What brought you to New York?”

He started.

“I—­ I came—­ I don’t care to tell,” he stammered.

“Were you going to Brooklyn?” I questioned, struck by a sudden idea.

“Why, how did you know?” he exclaimed.

“You have certain papers,” I continued.

“Yes, I—­” he felt in his pockets.  “Why, where are they?”

“Are they in this?” I asked, suddenly remembering the note-book I had picked up, and producing it.