did not add that he would
return the poems in person, but such was his warlike intention.

This had the desired result, and brought us a fourth poem and a fourth
address, the name of a tall building which towers above Union Square. We
seemed to be getting very warm now, and the editor gathered up the four
poems, and called to his aid his friend Bronson, the ablest reporter on
the New York ----, who was to act as chronicler. They took with them
letters from the authors of two of the poems and from the editor of the
magazine in which the first one had originally appeared, testifying to
the fact that Edwin Aram had made an exact copy of the original, and
wishing the brother editor good luck in catching the plagiarist.

The reporter looked these over with a critical eye. "The City Editor
told me if we caught him," he said, "that I could let it run for all it
was worth. I can use these names, I suppose, and I guess they have
pictures of the poets at the office. If he turns out to be anybody in
particular, it ought to be worth a full three columns. Sunday paper,
too."

The amateur detectives stood in the lower hall in the tall building,
between swinging doors, and jostled by hurrying hundreds, while they
read the names on a marble directory.

"There he is!" said the editor, excitedly. "'American Literary Bureau.'
One room on the fourteenth floor. That's just the sort of a place in
which we would be likely to find him." But the reporter was gazing
open-eyed at a name in large letters on an office door. "Edward K.
Aram," it read, "Commissioner of ----, and City ----."

"What do you think of _that_?" he gasped, triumphantly.

"Nonsense," said the editor. "He wouldn't dare; besides, the initials
are different. You're expecting too good a story."

"That's the way to get them," answered the reporter, as he hurried
towards the office of the City ----. "If a man falls dead, believe it's
a suicide until you prove it's not; if you find a suicide, believe it's
a murder until you are convinced to the contrary. Otherwise you'll get
beaten. We don't want the proprietor of a little literary bureau, we
want a big city official and I'll believe we have one until he proves we
haven't."

"Which are you going to ask for?" whispered the editor, "Edward K. or
Edwin?"

"Edwin, I should say," answered the reporter. "He has probably given
notice that mail addressed that way should go to him."

"Is Mr. Edwin Aram in?" he asked.

A clerk