“Yes, boss; this is my office,” answered Tom, humorously. “If it’s more convenient, you kin call at my house on Fifth Avenue.”
James Barclay left the park in a state of high satisfaction. It was important to his schemes to find his father, and now there seemed to be no further difficulty in the way. Then, too, he rather plumed himself on his success as a detective. Old Jerry, prompted probably by Paul, had removed his residence with the object of avoiding him and putting him off the track. But it had all proved useless. Thanks, as he assured himself, to his remarkable sharpness, he had foiled the old man and found out what he had attempted to conceal.
“How glum he will look when he sees me coming into his room!” he chuckled to himself. “It’ll be worth five dollars to see his scared face. Serves him right, too, for tryin’ to deceive his own flesh and blood.”
It was no little additional satisfaction that Paul, too, against whom he had a grudge for his interference with his attempt at burglary, would be disappointed and discomfited.
Should he go at once to call on his father? By the City Hall clock it lacked a quarter of ten. There was no hurry, for he had his address, and could find him any time. He wanted to make another call first, and decided to do so. What this call was, is not essential to my story. It is sufficient to say that it occupied him two hours, and that it was a little past twelve when he reached the new residence of his father in Ludlow Street.
There was a woman standing at the door.
“Is there an old man and a telegraph boy living here?” asked Barclay.
“Yes,” answered the woman. “Head of the stairs on the third floor.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m much obliged.”
James Barclay ascended the stairs, smiling to himself all the way.