morning. Be at the bank at 10:30."

The note, puzzling as it was, was hardly an addition to my
perplexities. It was evident that I had been plunged into the center of
intrigue, plot and counterplot. I was supposed to have possession of
somebody's boy. A powerful and active enemy threatened me with death.
An equally active friend was working to preserve my safety. People of
wealth were concerned. I had dimly seen a fragment of the struggling
forces, and it was plain that only a very rich person could afford the
luxury of hiring the bravos and guards who threatened and protected me.

How wide were the ramifications of the mystery? Whose was the boy, and
what was wanted of him? Had he been stolen from home and parents? Or
was he threatened with mortal danger and sent into hiding to keep him
from death?

The fate of Henry showed the power of those who were pursuing me. Armed
as he was with the knowledge of his danger, knowing, as I did not, what
he had to guard and from what he had to guard it, he had yet fallen a
victim.

I could not doubt that he was the man assaulted and stabbed in the
alley below. But the fact that no trace of him or of a tragedy was to
be found gave me hope that he was still alive. Yet, at best, he was
wounded and in the hands of his enemies, a prisoner to the men who had
sought his life. It must be, however, that he was not yet recognized.
The transfer of the chase to me was proof that the scoundrels had been
misled by the resemblance between us, and by the letters found in the
coat. They were convinced that he was Giles Dudley, and that I was
Henry Wilton. As long as there was hope that he was alive I would