"You will find his number on this slip of paper, sonny," the detective added, handing the lad a card. "He is not at his office. He went home to lunch in the hope that he had left the pocketbook there."
After some delay Stephen succeeded in getting the number written on the card. A servant answered the summons.
"May I speak to Mr. Ackerman, please?" inquired the lad. "He is at luncheon? No, it would not do the least good for me to tell you my name for he would not know who it was. Just tell him that the boy who sat beside him this morning on the Fifth Avenue bus—" there was a little chuckle. "Oh, he will be here directly, will he? I thought perhaps he would."
A moment later a cheery voice which Steve at once recognized to be that of the steamboat man came over the wire:
"Well, sonny?"
"I found your bill book, Mr. Ackerman, and my father and I would like to bring it up to you."
"Well, well! that is fine news!" cried the man at the other end of the line. "How did you know who it belonged to?"
"Oh, I—we—found out—my father and I," stammered the lad. "May we come up to your house with it now?"
"You would much better let me come to you; then only one person will be inconvenienced," the New Yorker returned pleasantly. "Where are you staying?"