"What was the appearance of the man who presented them?"
The description was given.
"They were my notes," said Scott. "The man stole them from me. Where did he go?"
"I can't tell, but perhaps our messenger may know. Wait a minute."
The messenger—William Doon, a boy of eighteen—remembered that Lane had gone as far as Broadway, and turned to go uptown.
"Come along," said John, "we may catch him yet."
Scott gave himself up to the guidance of his boy friend, and hurried up Broadway, but without much hope of finding Lane. He had not yet sold his notes, feeling that he must if possible catch the thief who had plundered him.
Just above Chambers Street, on the west side of the street, was a cut-rate railroad ticket office.
"Suppose we go in there," suggested John. "He may buy a ticket for some place out West. He wouldn't dare to stay in New York."