Before calling upon him I sought as an introducer Henry N. Stevens—the worthy son of an illustrious father who follows closely in his footsteps as the best authority on early printed American books in Europe—at his shop across the street from the imposing Museum building, and to him I told my story. As I proceeded his interest grew, and before I had finished he excitedly grasped my arm with one hand and his hat with the other, exclaiming: “Come with me. This is not a subject for underlings,” and rushed me across the street without pause until we were in the sanctum sanctorum of the learned and accomplished Keeper, Alfred W. Pollard. And to him I told my simple tale, and asked his assistance. Mr. Pollard is himself a bibliographer of note in his special field, and my story was not without interest to him, but he refused to share my belief that the missing broadside was what I supposed it to be, laying much stress upon the black-letter feature as proof of its English origin. The unsuccessful search for the missing broadside had evidently been called to his notice, and the failure to produce anything in the millions of books catalogued in that vast collection, he considered a challenge to the efficiency of himself and his staff of assistants. A few days later, he acknowledged failure; but gave me the interesting information that in tracing the broadside back to its accession he had found that it was acquired by the Museum in the year 1865, and formed part of a bundle of miscellaneous matter, being considered of so little importance as not even to have been mentioned in the contents of the bundle. Printing of the letter F of the Catalogue was completed in 1888, and since that time an expansion of the classification of books upon the shelves had been made, from which dated its disappearance. He would not, however, discontinue his efforts to find it. After apologizing for giving him a “bad half-hour,” which only the importance of the broadside excused, our second interview ended. On my last day in London, I went again with Mr. Stevens to call on Mr. Pollard about the matter, and told him that I had made my arrangements to fly from London to Paris on the morrow, and asked him if these old eyes of mine were never to behold the holy grail. “In black-letter?” he queried, touching the weak spot in my armor. “In duodecimo!” I countered, pointing to the rent in his own. And the third interview ended with his assurance that the search would go on until the missing broadside was found. And there the matter rests, very much in the condition of the story of the cook who asked the skipper: “Is any thing lost when you know where it is?” And to the skipper’s gruff response, “Of course not,” he pleasantly replied: “I am glad to know that our only iron soup kettle wasn’t lost when it fell over-board into the Bay.”