This, however, presupposed the fact that he was writing to us over his real name, which we did not believe he would dare to do.  No one in our little circle of journalists and literary men had ever heard of such a man, and his name did not appear in the directory.  This fact, however, was not convincing in itself, as the residents of New York move from flat to hotel, and from apartments to boarding-houses as frequently as the Arab changes his camping-ground.  We tried to draw him out at last by publishing a personal paragraph which stated that several contributions received from Edwin Aram would be returned to him if he would send stamps and his present address.  The editor did not add that he would return the poems in person, but such was his warlike intention.

This had the desired result, and brought us a fourth poem and a fourth address, the name of a tall building which towers above Union Square.  We seemed to be getting very warm now, and the editor gathered up the four poems, and called to his aid his friend Bronson, the ablest reporter on the New York ——­, who was to act as chronicler.  They took with them letters from the authors of two of the poems and from the editor of the magazine in which the first one had originally appeared, testifying to the fact that Edwin Aram had made an exact copy of the original, and wishing the brother editor good luck in catching the plagiarist.

The reporter looked these over with a critical eye.  “The City Editor told me if we caught him,” he said, “that I could let it run for all it was worth.  I can use these names, I suppose, and I guess they have pictures of the poets at the office.  If he turns out to be anybody in particular, it ought to be worth a full three columns.  Sunday paper, too.”

The amateur detectives stood in the lower hall in the tall building, 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?”