In going through the papers he noted one topic which interested him, a "similar mystery" story on the second page. From what he could gather, he judged that much space had already been given to it; for now, inasmuch as no solution offered, the item was dying slowly, the major portion of each article being devoted to a rehash of similar unsolved mysteries. Anderson read that the body of the golden-haired girl still lay at the Morgue, unidentified. Bit by bit he pieced together the lean story that she was a suicide and that both the police and the press had failed in their efforts to unearth the least particle of information regarding her. In spite of her remarkable beauty and certain unusual circumstances connected with her death investigation had led nowhere. On the following day Anderson again walked into the editorial-rooms of _The Intelligencer_ and greeted the smooth, fat-faced occupant thereof. "Anything doing yet?" he inquired. "Not yet," said the newspaper man, with a trace of annoyance in his voice. As the applicant moved out he halted him at the door with the words: "Oh! Wait!" Anderson's heart leaped. After all, he thought, perseverance would-- "Not yet, nor soon." The editor smiled broadly, and Paul realized that the humor in those pin-point eyes was rather cruel. Five other calls he made that day, to be greeted gruffly in every instance except one. One man encouraged him slightly by saying: "Come back next week; I may have an opening then." In view of the "pay-as-you-enter" policy in vogue at Anderson's boarding-house he knew there could be no next week for him, therefore he inquired: "How about a little space work in the meantime? I'm pretty good at that stuff." "You are?" "Surest thing you know." "Did you ever do any?" "No. But I'm good, just the same." "Huh!" the editor grunted. "There's no room now, and, come to think of it, you needn't bother to get around next week. I can't break in new men." That evening young Anderson again repaired to his room with his harvest of daily papers, and again he read them thoroughly. He was by no means discouraged as yet, for his week had just begun--there were still five days of grace, and prime ministers have been made overnight, nations have fallen in five days. Six calls a day for five days, that meant thirty chances for a job. It was a cinch! Hidden away among the back pages once more he encountered the golden-haired-girl story, and although one paper featured it a bit because of some imaginary clue, the others treated it casually, making public the information that the body still lay at the Morgue, a silent, irritating thing of mystery.