Sixth avenue was not far distant, and as Frank was left to his own choice he betook himself hither on his shopping tour. Entering a large retail store, he inquired for gentleman's linen handkerchiefs.

"Large or small?" asked the girl in attendance.

"Large, I should think."

He was shown some of good quality, at fifty cents.

"I think they will do," said Frank, after examination. "I will take half-a-dozen."

So saying he drew out one of the twenty-dollar bills.

"Cash!" called the saleswoman, tapping on the counter with her pencil.

Several small boys were flitting about the store in the service of customers. One of them made his appearance.

"Have you nothing smaller?" asked the girl, noticing the denomination of the bill.

"No," answered Frank.

She put the bill between the leaves of a small blank book, and handed both that and the goods to the boy.

Frank sat down on a stool by the counter to wait.

Presently the cash-boy came back, and the proprietor of the store with him. He was a portly man, with a loud voice and an air of authority. To him the cash-boy pointed out Frank.

"Are you the purchaser of these handkerchiefs?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered Frank, rather surprised at the question.

"And did you offer this twenty-dollar bill in payment?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you get it? Think well," said the trader, sternly.

"What is the matter? Isn't the bill a good one?" asked Frank.

"You have not answered my question. However, I will answer yours. The bill is a counterfeit."

Frank looked surprised, and he understood at a flash why he had been trusted with two of these bills when one would answer.

"I have nothing to do with that," said the telegraph boy. "I was sent out to buy some articles, and this money was given me to pay for them."

"Have you got any other money of this description?" asked the trader, suspiciously.

"Yes," answered Frank, readily. "I have another twenty."

"Let me see it."

"Certainly. I should like to know whether that is bad too."

The other twenty proved to be a fac-simile of the first.

"I must know where you got this money," said the merchant. "You may be in the service of counterfeiters."

"You might know, from my uniform, that I am not," said Frank, indignantly. "I once lost a place because I would not pa.s.s counterfeit money."

"I have a detective here. You must lead him to the man who supplied you with the money."

"I am quite willing to do it," said our hero. "He wanted to make a tool of me. If I can put him into the hands of the law, I will."

"That boy is all right," said a gentleman standing by. "The rogue was quite ingenious in trying to work off his bad money through a telegraph messenger."

"What is the appearance of this man?" asked the detective as they walked along.

"Rather a reddish face, and partly bald."

"What is the color of the hair he has?"

"Red."

"Very good. It ought to be easy to know him by that description."

"I should know him at once," said Frank, promptly.

"If he has not changed his appearance. It is easy to do that, and these fellows understand it well."

Reaching the house, Frank rang the bell, the detective sauntering along on the opposite side of the street.

"Is Mr. Stanley at home?" asked Frank.

"I will see."

The girl came down directly, with the information that Mr. Stanley had gone out.

"That is queer," said Frank. "He told me to come right back. He said he had a headache, too, and did not want to go out."

As he spoke, his glance rested on a man who was lounging at the corner.

This man had black hair, and a full black beard. By chance, Frank's eye fell upon his right hand, and with a start he recognized a large ring with a sparkling diamond, real or imitation. This ring he had last seen on Mr. Stanley's hand. He crossed the street in a quiet, indifferent manner, and imparted his suspicions to the detective.

"Good!" said the latter; "you are a smart boy."

He approached the man alluded to, who, confident in his disguise, did not budge, and, placing his hand on his shoulder, said, "Mr. Stanley, I believe."

"You are mistaken," said the man, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant way, with a foreign accent, "I am M. Lavalette. I do not know your M. Stanley."

"I am afraid you are forgetful, monsieur. I beg pardon, but do you wear a wig?" and with a quick movement he removed the stranger's hat, and, dislodging his black wig, displayed the rim of red hair.