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 respectability. He was a tall, thin young
man, with light hair and mustache and large blue eyes. His back was
towards the window, so that his face was in the shadow, and he did not
rise as they entered. The room in which he sat was a prettily furnished
one, opening into another tiny room, which, from the number of books in
it, might have been called a library. The rooms had a well-to-do, even
prosperous, air, but they did not show any evidences of a pronounced
taste on the part of their owner, either in the way in which they were
furnished or in the decorations of the walls. A little girl of about
seven or eight years of age, who was standing between her father's