sorts of hair on her head--brownish, goldish sort of hair. She was
about twenty-two or three, maybe, and--and--Cap, she was the goods,
that's all."

In the course of a day a thousand women, more or less, answering that
description in a general sort of way, ride back and forth on the
elevated trains. Mr. Birnes sighed as he remembered this; still it
might produce results. Then came another idea.

"Did you happen to look in the cab after the young woman left it?" he
inquired.

"No."

"Had any fares since?"

"No."

Mr. Birnes opened the door of the closed cab and glanced in. Perhaps
there might be a stray glove, a handkerchief, some more definite clew
than this vague description. He scrutinized the inside of the
vehicle carefully; there was nothing. Yes, by Jingo, here _was_
something--a white streak under the edge of the cushion on the seat!
Mr. Birnes' hopeful fingers fished it out. It was a white envelope,
sealed and--_and addressed to him!_

If you are as clever as I imagine you are, you will find this.
My address is No. ---- East Thirty-seventh Street. I shall be
pleased to see you if you will call.
E. VAN CORTLANDT WYNNE.