“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.

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 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.