One was the hump-backed negro, carrying on a waiter a plate of buttered bread, and a cup of tea; the other person was—not the old man, but, to Dodger’s great amazement, a person well-remembered, though he had only seen him once—Curtis Waring.
“Set down the waiter on the table, Julius,” said Waring.
Dodger looked on in stupefaction. He was getting more and more bewildered.
“Now, you can go!” said Curtis, in a tone of authority.
The negro bowed, and after he had disposed of the waiter, withdrew.
“Do you know me, boy?” asked Curtis, turning now and addressing Dodger.
“Yes; you are Mr. Waring.”
“You remember where you last saw me?”
“Yes, sir. At your uncle’s house on Madison Avenue.”
“Quite right.”