The interest excited in my mind by that letter may be imagined. Here was a possible answer to the question I had been asking myself. The opportunity must not be lost. Under the pretext of helping Mrs. Wharton, I succeeded in placing my foot squarely over the letter. To drop and regain my handkerchief, restoring it to my pocket with that much to be desired missive concealed in its folds, was sufficiently easy, even for an amateur. Before departing for home, I made a few ostensibly casual inquiries regarding the dead man. It appeared that he was a comparatively new boarder in the house, and had said that he had been in the city but a short time. He had not obtained any regular employment, but seemed to have plenty of money, Mrs. Wharton stated, adding, “He was an awfully nice young man, Mr. Peyton was, and everybody in the house liked him.” “Do you know whether or not he was married?” I asked. “Oh, my, no, he wasn’t married!” exclaimed Mrs. Wharton. “I’m quite sure he wasn’t, because he had a sweetheart--such a pretty girl, too. That’s her picture on the mantel.” I picked up the photograph and found that the landlady had spoken “by the card”--the dead man’s sweetheart was indeed “such a pretty girl,” of the dark Spanish type--with a face full of life and passion. “Ah,” I exclaimed to myself, “I’ll wager that we have found ‘the woman.’ Those great dark eyes, that massive head of ebon hair and those full, sensuous lips seem to me to fit into this mystery very accurately.” “Where does the young woman live?” I asked. “Laws, sir, I don’t know where she lives, but I understand that she works somewhere down town. Mr. Peyton used to call for her, so one of the other boarders who used to be here said, nearly every evening at closing time, at one of them big department stores. I don’t know which one, for sure, but I think it was the Emporium--or, maybe, it was Wurtzinger’s.” I had no doubt as to my ability to recognize the original of the photograph. After making a mental note of the somewhat faded inscription upon the back, I replaced the picture upon the mantel. “To Hartley, from Julie.” Julie was the name that the dead man had spoken, almost in his last agony. Most assuredly I must find Julie. As may be imagined, after my arrival home I wasted none of the remaining precious moments of the night in sleeping. I fairly dashed into my study, turned on the lights, closed and locked the door instinctively, without rhyme or reason, and proceeded to read that portentous letter: “Hartley:--