raised his head and looked behind him. "No," he said; "his desk
is closed. I guess he's gone home for the day."

The reporter nudged the editor savagely with his elbow, but his face
gave no sign. "That's a pity," he said; "we have an appointment with
him. He still lives at Sixty-first Street and Madison Avenue, I believe,
does he not?"

"No," said the clerk; "that's his father, the Commissioner, Edward K.
The son lives at ----. Take the Sixth Avenue elevated and get off at
116th Street."

"Thank you," said the reporter. He turned a triumphant smile upon the
editor. "We've got him!" he said, excitedly. "And the son of old Edward
K., too! Think of it! Trying to steal a few dollars by cribbing other
men's poems; that's the best story there has been in the papers for the
past three months,--'Edward K. Aram's son a thief!' Look at the
names--politicians, poets, editors, all mixed up in it. It's good for
three columns, sure."

"We've got to think of his people, too," urged the editor, as they
mounted the steps of the elevated road.

"He didn't think of them," said the reporter.

The house in which Mr. Aram lived was an apartment-house, and the brass
latchets in the hallway showed that it contained three suites. There
were visiting-cards under the latchets of the first and third stories,
and under that of the second a piece of note-paper on which was written
the autograph of Edwin Aram. The editor looked at it curiously. He had
never believed it to be a real name.

"I am sorry Edwin Aram did not turn out to be a woman," he said,
regretfully; "it would have been so much more interesting."

"Now," instructed Bronson, impressively, "whether he is in or not we
have him. If he's not in, we wait until he comes, even if he doesn't
come until morning; we don't leave this place until we have seen him."

"Very well," said the editor.

The maid left them standing at the top of the stairs while she went to
ask if Mr. Aram was in, and whether he would see two gentlemen who did
not give their names because they were strangers to him. The two stood
silent while they waited, eying each other anxiously, and when the girl
reopened the door, nodded pleasantly, and said, "Yes, Mr. Aram is in,"
they hurried past her as though they feared that he would disappear in
midair, or float away through the windows before they could reach him.

And yet, when they stood at last face-to-face him, he bore a most
disappointing air of every-day res