This seemed not unlikely, and Scott followed young Schickling into the office.
It was a lucky thought. No sooner had they entered than Scott recognized his faithless acquaintance at the counter inquiring the price of a ticket to Chicago.
"I can give you a ticket this morning for fourteen dollars," said the agent. "It is a rare chance, but it will have to be used within three days."
"I will take it," answered Lane, drawing a roll of bills from his pocket.
It was the money he had received from the broker.
Scott was exasperated at the man's coolness. He was no milk-and-water boy, but a lad of spirit.
"Mr. Lane," he said, grasping the other's arm, "give me back that money you stole from me."
Crawford Lane turned and gazed at Scott in dismay. He had never expected to see him again, and could not understand how he had got upon his track. But he decided to brazen it out.
"What do you mean, boy?" he demanded, roughly. "You must be crazy."