He reached Broadway, and instead of taking an omnibus, started to walk up-town. He knew there was no haste¹, and a walk up the great busy thoroughfare had its attractions for him, as it has for many others.

Behind him, preserving a distance of from fifteen to twenty feet, walked a dark-complexioned man of not far from forty years of age. Of course Phil was not likely to notice him.

Whatever the man's designs might be, he satisfied himself at first with simply keeping our hero in view. But as they both reached Bleecker Street, he suddenly increased his pace and caught up with Phil. He touched the boy on the shoulder, breathing quickly, as if he had been running.

Phil turned quickly.

“Do you want me, sir?” he asked, eying the stranger in surprise.

“I don't know. Perhaps I am mistaken. Are you in the employ of Mr. Oliver Carter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah I then you are the boy I want. I have bad news for you.”

“Bad news!” repeated Phil, alarmed. “What is it?”

“Mr. Carter was seized with a fit in the street half an hour since.”

“Is he—dead?” asked Phil, in dismay².

“No, no! I think he will come out all right.”

“Where is he?”

“In my house. I didn't of course know who he was, but I found in his pocket a letter directed to Oliver Carter, Madison Avenue. There was also a business card. He is connected in business with Mr. Pitkin, is he not?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil; “where is your house?”

“In Bleecker Street, near by. Mr. Carter is lying on the bed. He is unconscious, but my wife heard him say: 'Call Philip.' I suppose that is you?”

“Yes, sir; my name is Philip.”

“I went around to his place of business, and was told that you had just left there. I was given a description of you and hurried to find you. Will you come to the house and see Mr. Carter?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, forgetting everything except that his kind and generous employer³ was sick, perhaps dangerously.

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