lease.'

He stepped back into the office and took from a desk a little order
book. I opened it: there were some orders, hastily written, no doubt,
but in a hand almost like beautiful copperplate.

This was my man--I felt nearly certain of it. I asked where he lived,
and was told, with his mother, a widow woman, at such a number in Hudson
street. I started for the place. It was now nine o'clock. Arriving at
the house, I rang the bell. It was answered by a servant girl.

'Does Mr. Edgar live here?' I inquired.

'Yes, sir.'

'Is he at home?'

'No, sir.'

'When will he come home?'

'I don't know.'

'Does he sleep here?'

'Sometimes he does, and sometimes he doesn't.'

'Where is he likely to be found? I should like to see him.'

She said she really didn't know, unless perhaps he might be at a
billiard saloon not far off. I went there. A noisy crowd was around the
bar. I looked around the room and closely scrutinized every face. No
tall, light-haired young man was there. I asked the barkeeper if Mr.
Edgar had been there that evening. He said no, he had not seen anything
of him for two or three days, I asked him if there was any other place
he knew of that Edgar frequented, and was told he went a good deal to a
bowling alley in West Broadway near Duane street. Not much yet, I
thought, as I hurried on to West Broadway. Descending a few steps into a
basement, I entered a sort of vestibule or office to the bowling saloon.
'Has Mr. Edgar been here this evening?' I inquired of the man in
attendance.

'He is here now,' was the reply, 'in the other room, through that door.'

I passed through the door indicated into the bowling alley, and accosted
the marker:

'Is Mr. Edgar here?'

'He has just gone--fifteen minutes ago.'

'Do you know where he went to?'

'Seems to me some of them said something about going to the Lafayette
Theatre.'

I am on his track now--I said to myself--only fifteen minutes behind
him. I bent my steps to the theatre--taking with, me a comrade in the
police service, whom I had encountered as I was leaving the saloon. We
hurried on with the utmost rapidity, but on reaching the theatre, found,
to my disgust, what I had already feared, that the play was over, and
the theatre just closed.

'Better give it up for to-night,' said my companion; 'we know enough
about him now, and can take up the search again to-morrow.'

'It won't do, Clarke,' said I, 'we have inquired for him at too many
pla