“Well, Aunt Rachel, how are you feeling this morning?” asked her nephew.

“Out of sorts,” was the laconic² reply.

“I am very sorry for that. I suppose there is reason for it.”

“Yes; I’ve been robbed.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Norris. “Lost your purse? I wonder more ladies are not robbed, carrying their money as carelessly as they do.”

“That isn’t it. I am always careful, as careful as any man.”

“Still you got robbed.”

“Yes, but of a bank book.”

Here Carl became attentive³. It was clear that he would not have to look any farther for the owner of the book he had found in his stateroom.

“What kind of a bank book?” inquired Mr. Norris.

“I had nearly a thousand dollars deposited in the Sixpenny Savings⁴ Bank. I called at the bank to make some inquiries⁵ about interest, and when I came out I presume some rascal⁶ followed me and stole the book——”

“Have you any idea who took it?”

“I got into the horse cars, near the bank; next to me sat a young man in a light overcoat. There was no one on the other side of me. I think he must have taken it.”

“That was Stuyvesant,” said Carl to himself.

“When did this happen, Aunt Rachel?”

“Three days since.”

“Why didn’t you do something about it before?”

“I did. I advertised a reward of twenty-five dollars to anyone who would restore it to me.”

“There was no occasion for that. By giving notice at the bank, they would give you a new book after a time.”

“I preferred to recover the old one. Besides, I thought I would like to know what became of it.”

“I can tell you, Miss Norris,” said Carl, who thought it time to speak.

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