"You are very kind, Mr. Lane."
"I mean to be. I hope you will look upon me as a friend—and a brother."
These words were kind, but Scott hesitated to respond. He had seen no occasion to distrust his companion, but for some reason, unaccountable to himself, he could not give him his confidence.
They sauntered up Broadway till they reached Waverly Place. Just at the corner they attracted the attention of a boy of perhaps fifteen, who seemed to recognize Scott's companion.
He was a dark-haired, pleasant-looking boy, whose face seemed to indicate German descent.
"Mr. Lane," he said, touching Scott's companion on the arm.
Crawford Lane wheeled round and eyed the boy as if disconcerted.
"What do you want, boy?" he demanded, haughtily. "I don't know you."
"Oh, yes, you do. My name is John Schickling."