“Mr. Courtney, for important reasons, which I am sure it will not be necessary to give you, I am seeking a certain young lady, who may or may not be employed in this establishment. I have been compelled to ask your assistance because I have only her description to rely upon, and know merely her given name--‘Julie.’” I then proceeded to describe the young woman of the photograph. My friend smiled and said, “Your task is an easy one, doctor. There’s only one of her kind, in this establishment, at least. Do you wish to speak to the young woman?” I was somewhat taken aback by the suddenness with which success promised to reward my search. “W--why, yes, if it would not be too much trouble,” I replied. Mr. Courtney rapped sharply for a messenger, and one promptly appeared. “Tell Miss Morales, in the lace department, that I wish to see her here at once.” The messenger departed on his mission, leaving me wondering how I had missed seeing the object of my quest. I recalled having lingered for quite a while at the lace department. The messenger did his errand quickly and returned. “Please, sir, Miss Morales is at home sick. The lace department manager says she hain’t been down to the store for three or four days.” “Why,” exclaimed Mr. Courtney, “come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for several days. I had made no especial note of her absence, however, as there are so many women employes in the store, and the lace department isn’t on my floor. If you wish, doctor, I will ascertain where she lives. We keep a record of the residences of all our employes, you know.” Mr. Courtney went to the office and returned with a card upon which was written, “Miss Julie Morales, No. -- M-- Street.” After thanking my friend and asking him to consider my inquiry as of a confidential nature, I wended my way to the address given me. No. -- M-- Street proved to be located some distance from the business part of the city. The house presented the semi-respectable appearance of a boarding house of the cheaper grade. A smirking, frowsy, freckle-faced Irish maid opened the door in answer to my ring, and informed me that “Miss Morales was to home” and she “guessed,” in her room. The maid ushered me into the stuffy, cookery smelling parlor, dusted a rickety, shabby genteel, hair-cloth covered chair with her apron, and asked me to be seated. “Who shall I be after tellin’ Miss Morales as wants to see her?” “Never mind my name. Just tell her I am from the Emporium.” The maid soon returned and informed me that Miss Morales would be “down in a little while.” I had begun to grow somewhat restless, and was wondering whether the fair Miss Morales had not become suspicious and eluded me, when there was a soft rustle of skirts in the hall, the door opened, and there stood the original of the photograph--hollow eyed, wan and haggard, with deep care lines about the mouth, but still undoubtedly “Julie,” and still surpassingly lovely.