A clerk 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