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.