The crafty little fellow followed out this plan to its successful conclusion. Looking the plutocrat admirably, he stepped briskly down the pavement of Whitechapel, and when he saw his man in the distance, gave vent to a grunt of pleasure. And yet he contrived matters so that it was Adolf who, looking up as the fur-coated man passed, recognized an old partner.
"Hallo!" he called, while a sulky cloud gathered upon his sickly face. "Carl Reitberg of all people!"
Now at any other time Mr. Carl Reitberg would, as we have hinted, not have been anxious to renew an acquaintance with such a man. His wealth had brought with it position. Carl Reitberg chose to forget his earlier days, and the people with whom he had consorted. But now he had an object in view, and halting at once he allowed first a look of amazement to spread over his fat and jowly face; and then a welcoming smile set his lips apart, while he stretched out a hand to grip Adolf's.
"You!" he cried. "Who could have thought it? And here of all places. Why, we parted in South Africa."
"Johnny'sberg—yes; because the police——"
"H-hush! That's done with; I've forgotten," said Carl hastily. "But—but you're down on your luck. I haven't forgotten that we were friends then, at any rate. This place is too public for a meeting. Take me somewhere where we can be quiet."
And thus it happened that they were closeted in that back room in the grimy house adjacent to Whitechapel.
"And so you're down, penniless," said Carl, eyeing his one-time friend narrowly.
"Absolutely; hopelessly."
The opulent individual who had sought this interview so craftily lifted ten fat fingers to show his concern. Then he dipped with difficulty into a waistcoat pocket, pulled out a crinkling note of the value of five pounds, and handed it across the dirty table.