Two weeks later Tony and his friend were guests at a popular London hotel, not far from Charing Cross.

We will postpone business till we have seen a little of London,” said George Spencer. “Luckily my business is not of a pressing character, and it can wait.”

“You have been in London before, Mr. Spencer,” said Tony. “I am afraid you will find it a bore going round with me.”

“Not at all. I spent a week here when a boy of twelve, and saw nothing thoroughly, so I am at your disposal. Where shall we go first?”

“I should like to see Buckingham Palace, where the king lives.”

“He doesn’t live there much. However, we’ll go to see it, but we’ll take the Parliament House and Westminster Abbey on the way.”

In accordance with this program they walked—for the distance was but small—to Westminster Abbey. It would be out of place for me to describe here that wonderful church where so much of the rank and talent of past ages lies buried. It is enough to say that Tony enjoyed it highly. He afterward visited the Parliament House. This occupied another hour. When they came out Mr. Spencer said:

“Tony, I have got to go to my banker’s. Do you care to come?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Spencer, I would rather walk round by myself.”

“Very well, Tony, just as you please. Only don’t get lost.”

“I’ll take care of that; I’m used to cities.”

“You are not used to London. It is one of the blindest cities in the world; it is a complete labyrinth.”

“I don’t mean to get lost. You’ll find me at the hotel at four o’clock.”

“Very well. That will be early enough.”

So George Spencer went his way, and Tony set out upon his rambles.

He found plenty to amuse him in the various buildings and sights of the great metropolis. But after a while he began to wonder where he was. He had strayed into a narrow street, scarcely more than a lane, with a row of tumble-down dwellings on either side.

There’s nothing worth seeing here,” said our hero. “I’ll inquire my way to Charing Cross.”

He went into a small beer house, and preferred his request.

Charing Cross!” repeated the publican. “It’s a good ways from ’ere.”

“How far?” asked Tony.

A mile easy, and there’s no end of turns.”

“Just start me, then,” said Tony, “and I’ll reach there. Which way is it?”

“Turn to the left when you go out of this shop.”

“All right, and thank you.”

Tony noticed that there were three or four men seated at tables in the back part of the shop, but he had not the curiosity to look at them. If he had, he would have been startled, for among these men was Rudolph Rugg, more disreputable than ever in appearance, for he had been drinking deeply for the last six months. He stared at Tony as one dazed, for he supposed him dead long ago at the bottom of a well, three thousand miles away.

What’s the matter, Rugg?” asked his companion. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“So I have,” muttered Rugg, starting for the door.

Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a headache,” said Rudolph.

You’ve left your drink.”

“I don’t want it.”

“What’s come over him?” said his late companion, in surprise.

No matter. He’ll be back soon.”

Rudolph swiftly followed Tony. He wanted to find out whether it was really the boy whom he had sought to murder or not. Then, what did his appearance in London mean? Was he possibly in search of him—Rugg? It was wonderful, certainly. How had he obtained the means of coming to England?—as a gentleman, too, for Rudolph had not failed to notice his rich clothes. Had he obtained rich and powerful friends, and was he in search of the inheritance that had been wrongfully kept from him?

Rudolph asked himself all these questions, but he could not answer one.

If I could only ask him,” he thought, “but that wouldn’t be safe.”

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