"If you wish to follow my advice write at once to this Mr. Banker, whom this Harvey Nottington of London says was to be your guardian. With what you now know perhaps he may be able to throw some light on the subject."
"I will do so at once," I replied.
As soon as the meal was finished I sat down in the reading-room, and wrote a long letter to Mr. Banker, telling him all that happened, and what a villain I had found Mr. Stillwell to be. I also said that I expected to be in New York the following evening and wished very much he would meet me. I likewise quoted the letter from London, and asked why my father's wish had not been carried out.
"That will do first-rate," said Mr. Ranson, when I showed it to him.
"I think I will take a walk out and post it," I said, for to write the letters had taken over an hour and a half, and I felt somewhat cramped from the work.
"All right. You will find me in the room when you return. Remember it is number 67."
I walked out upon the busy street. It was brightly lighted, and in the evening looked very similar to Fourteenth Street in New York.
I found a mail-box on the corner, and dropped my letter in it.
I was just turning away from the box when I felt a hand on my arm and a cheery voice called out:
"Well, dash my toplights, if it ain't Luke Foster! How under the polar star did you git here, boy?"