Carl was not long in concluding that he had been robbed by his roommate. It was hard to believe that a Stuyvesant—a representative of one of the old Dutch families of New Amsterdam—should have stooped to such a discreditable act. Carl was sharp enough, however, to doubt the genuineness of Mr. Stuyvesant’s claims to aristocratic lineage. Meanwhile he blamed himself for being so easily duped by an artful adventurer.
To be sure, it was not as bad as it might be. His pocketbook only contained ten dollars in small bills. The balance of his money he had deposited for safe keeping in the inside pocket of his vest. This he had placed under his pillow, and so it had escaped the notice of the thief.
The satchel contained a supply of shirts, underclothing, etc., and he was sorry to lose it. The articles were not expensive, but it would cost him from a dozen to fifteen dollars to replace them.
Carl stepped to the door of his stateroom and called a servant who was standing near.
“How long have we been at the pier?” he asked.
“About twenty minutes, sir.”
“Did you see my roommate go out?”
“A tall young man in a light overcoat?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sir. I saw him.”