have hit
upon a surer one. Sharlee Weyland had a great fund of pity for this
young man's worse than fatherlessness, and did not in the least mind
showing it. She came straight back into the room and up to the table
where he sat.

"Does it help you at all--about knowing where he is, I mean?"

"Not in the least. I wonder what he's up to anyway?"

He squinted up at her interrogatively through his circular glasses, as
though she ought to be able to tell him if anybody could. Then a thought
very much like that took definite shape in his mind. He himself had no
time to give to mysterious problems and will-o'-the-wisp pursuits; his
book and posterity claimed it all. This girl was familiar with the
city; doubtless knew all the people; she seemed intelligent and capable,
as girls went. He remembered that he had consulted her about securing
remunerative work, with some results; possibly she would also have
something sensible to say about his paternal problem. He might make an
even shrewder stroke. As his landlady's agent, this girl would of course
be interested in establishing his connection with a relative who had
twenty-dollar bills to give away. Therefore if it ever should come to a
search, why mightn't he turn the whole thing over to the agent--persuade
her to hunt his father for him, and thus leave his own time free for the
service of the race?

"Look here," said he, with a glance at his watch. "I'll take a few
minutes. Kindly sit down there and I'll show you how the man is
behaving."

Sharlee sat down as she was bidden, close by his side, piqued as to her
curiosity, as well as flattered by his royal condescension. She wore her
business suit, which was rough and blue, with a smart little pony coat.
She also wore a white veil festooned around her hat, and white gloves
that were quite unspotted from the world. The raw February winds had
whipped roses into her cheeks; her pure ultramarine eyes made the blue
of her suit look commonplace and dull. Dusk had fallen over the city,
and Queed cleverly bethought him to snap on an electric light. It
revealed a very shabby, ramshackle, and dingy office; but the long table
in it was new, oaken, and handsome. In fact, it was one of the repairs
introduced by the new management.

"Here," said he, "is his first letter--the one that brought me from New
York."

He took it from its envelope and laid it open on the table. A sense of
the pathos in this ready sharing of one's most intimat