"That's so, but I don't ask for myself. I've got a son—he's my youngest son—a young man of twenty-five, who's anxious to get something to do in the city. He ain't much good on a farm—don't seem to like it. He's read a good many books and stories about New York city, and he wants to come here. I wish I could get him a chance to learn the broker business. You haven't a place in your office now, have you?"
The young swell laughed in his sleeve.
"I've hooked the old man," he said to himself. "Now if I work my cards right, I shall be able to make something out of him."
"My friend," he said, "I can't tell you at once, but I will think it over, and—see you to-morrow morning."
He had not intended to finish his sentence thus, but just then he espied at the door of the reading room a small, quiet-looking man whose glance rested for a moment upon him. He knew—he had reason to know—that this was Richard Darke, a well-known detective.
He rose from his seat and sauntered to the door, and in two minutes he was one of the motley crowd that throng Broadway.
CHAPTER XI. RUPERT RECEIVES A COMMISSION.
The detective, as he left the reading room, passed Rupert, who was just entering.