She said she really didn’t know, unless perhaps he might be at a billiard saloon not far off.  I went there.  A noisy crowd was around the bar.  I looked around the room and closely scrutinized every face.  No tall, light-haired young man was there.  I asked the barkeeper if Mr. Edgar had been there that evening.  He said no, he had not seen anything of him for two or three days, I asked him if there was any other place he knew of that Edgar frequented, and was told he went a good deal to a bowling alley in West Broadway near Duane street.  Not much yet, I thought, as I hurried on to West Broadway.  Descending a few steps into a basement, I entered a sort of vestibule or office to the bowling saloon.  ‘Has Mr. Edgar been here this evening?’ I inquired of the man in attendance.

‘He is here now,’ was the reply, ‘in the other room, through that door.’

I passed through the door indicated into the bowling alley, and accosted the marker: 

‘Is Mr. Edgar here?’

‘He has just gone—­fifteen minutes ago.’

‘Do you know where he went to?’

’Seems to me some of them said something about going to the Lafayette Theatre.’

I am on his track now—­I said to myself—­only fifteen minutes behind him.  I bent my steps to the theatre—­taking with, me a comrade in the police service, whom I had encountered as I was leaving the saloon.  We hurried on with the utmost rapidity, but on reaching the theatre, found, to my disgust, what I had already feared, that the play was over, and the theatre just closed.

‘Better give it up for to-night,’ said my companion; ’we know enough about him now, and can take up the search again to-morrow.’

‘It won’t do, Clarke,’ said I, ’we have inquired for him at too many places.  Stay, I’ve a notion he may be heard of at some of these oyster cellars hereabouts.’

I went down into one of them, and asked if a tall young man with light hair had been there that evening.  A tall young man with light hair and mustache had come in from the theatre with a lady, and had just left.  I asked my informant if he knew the lady.  She was a Miss Kearney, he answered.

‘What?’ I continued, ‘didn’t her sister marry the actor Levison?’

‘Yes, the same person.’

‘He lives in Walker street, near the Bowery, I believe?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ replied the man.

I considered a moment.  Of course no one could tell me where Edgar had gone to; but I was tolerably certain he had gone home with the girl.  Where she lived I did not know, but I thought it probable the actor could tell me.  So we started on to Walker street.  There are—­or were at the time I speak of—­several boarding houses in Walker street.  We passed one or two three-story houses with marble steps.  ’Shall I ask along here?’ said Clarke.  ‘No,’ I answered; ’poor actors don’t board there; we must look for him farther on.’  We kept on, and after a little while, we found one that seemed to me to be likely to be the house we were looking for.  I rang the bell and inquired for Mr. Levison.  He was gone to bed.  It was now twelve o’clock.  I desired the man that opened the door to tell him that some one was below who wished to see him immediately.  He soon returned, saying that Mr. Levison was in bed, and could not be disturbed:  I must leave my business, or call again next day.