small it was sufficient to light the apartment.

Dodger looked about in a cursory 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 drawn. 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 amazement, 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.

"Yes; you are Mr. Waring."