There was no answer.

 

“I say, let me out!” continued our hero, beginning to kick at the panels.

 

This time there was an answer.

 

“Stop that kicking, boy! I will come back in fifteen minutes and explain all.”

 

“Well,” thought Dodger¹, “this is about the strangest thing that ever happened to me. However, I can wait fifteen minutes.”

 

He sat down on a cane² chair—there were two in the room—and looked about him.

 

He was in an ordinary bedroom, furnished in the usual manner. There was nothing at all singular in its appearance.

 

On a book shelf were a few books, and some old numbers of magazines. There was one window looking into a back yard, but as the room was small it was sufficient to light the apartment.

 

Dodger looked about in a cursory³ manner, not feeling any particular interest in his surroundings, for he had but fifteen minutes to wait, but he thought it rather queer that it should be thought necessary to lock him in.

 

He waited impatiently for the time to pass.

 

Seventeen minutes had passed when he heard the bolt drawn⁴. Fixing his eyes eagerly on the door he saw it open, and two persons entered.

 

One was the hump-backed negro, carrying on a waiter a plate of buttered bread, and a cup of tea; the other person was—not the old man, but, to Dodger’s great amazement⁵, a person well-remembered, though he had only seen him once—Curtis Waring.

 

“Set down the waiter on the table, Julius,” said Waring.

 

Dodger looked on in stupefaction. He was getting more and more bewildered.

 

“Now, you can go!” said Curtis, in a tone of authority.

 

The negro bowed, and after he had disposed of the waiter, withdrew.

 

“Do you know me, boy?” asked Curtis, turning now and addressing Dodger.

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