"That's the last time I'll ever set foot in that place," he said, addressing the sleepy driver. "I believe I've been hoodooed by some one. I never have any luck in Billy's nowadays, anyway."
"Luck against you to-night, sir?" asked the cabman, sympathetically.
"I should say luck was against me. I went in there with two hundred dollars, and all I have got left now is only a little more than enough to pay you."
"Hard luck," commented the man, evidently relieved by the latter part of the sentence.
"Home," ordered Farley, leaping into the carriage.
As the vehicle passed the Grand Central Depot he happened to look out; it was at the precise moment when Al Alston handed the brakeman the pencil.
"That boy here!" muttered Farley. "Well, he hasn't lost any time. I believe he is my evil genius. Somehow or other the sight of him sends a cold chill over me. I wonder if he saw me? I hope not. Pshaw! Why should I bother my head about the kid? I'll try to dismiss him from my mind for to-night."
The task did not prove an easy one, however, though Farley stopped at two saloons on the way; when the carriage reached its destination his mind was still busy with the boy he hated.
Having paid the driver with almost the last cent he possessed, he entered the house and ascended to the second story.
Unlocking a door at the head of the stairs, he entered a plainly furnished flat.