The two criminals laughed heartily.
"I believe I see into it now," said Mr. Sanford. "I said I was coming here to get revenge for the beating you gave me at chess. This revolver"—he took it from his pocket—"was given me this morning by the burglar I have been defending, as a token of his gratitude, as he expressed it, for the able manner in which I had conducted his case. And this poor little fellow"—looking kindly at Tom—"has been suffering agonies of fear for his father's safety ever since I showed it in the cars."
"So, friends," said Mr. Primrose, looking around, "I thank you all for coming to my protection, but you see I do not need it."
The police led the way out, and others followed, with increasing merriment at the mistake which had been made. A shout arose also from the crowd outside as it left the premises.
"I beg your pardon, sir; and yours," faltered poor Tom, with his strongest effort to keep back the tears of mortification at the terrible blunder he had committed.
"No pardon is necessary," said Mr. Sanford. "If my own small boy lives to your age, the best I can wish for him is that he may be as brave and energetic as you have been to-day, and as faithful in watching for his father's safety, even if it sometimes leads him into a mistake. You'll take my hand now, my boy, won't you?"
Tom grasped it, and then escaped to his room. There lay his pocket-book, just where he had left it when he changed his clothes in the morning. He threw himself on the bed and cried till sleep came to relieve his troubles.
When he awoke it was twilight, and his mother was beside him.
"Come, dear," she said, "they are all waiting for you. Yes, you must go down," as Tom shook his head: "they will not go to tea till you go down. And look at this—your father received it about an hour ago."
It was a telegram from Homer, and read thus: